The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.

When true hearts lie wither'd And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free, First flower of the earth and first gem of the sea.

Riches are chiefly good because they give us time.

(The pig) hath a fair sepulchre in the grateful stomach of the judicious epicure - and for such a tomb might be content to die.

Books think for me. I can read anything which I call a book.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.