Britannia's shame! There took her gloomy flight, On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul . Less base the fear of death than fear of life. O Britain! infamous for suicide.

Body and soul, like peevish man and wife, United jar, and yet are loth to part.

Born originals, how comes it to pass that we die copies? That meddling ape imitation, as soon as we come to years of indiscretion, (so let me speak,) snatches the pen, and blots out nature's mark of separation, cancels her kind intention, destroys all mental individuality. The lettered world no longer consists of singulars: it is a medley, a mass; and a hundred books, at bottom, are but one.

The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.

Live now; be damn'd hereafter.

A strange alternative * * *Must women have a doctor or a dance?

On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.