I called the New World into existence, to redress the balance of the Old.

Man, only - rash, refined, presumptuous man, Starts from his rank, and mars creation's plan.

But of all plagues, good Heaven, thy wrath can send, Save me, oh, save me, from the candid friend!

In matters of commerce the fault of the Dutch Is offering too little and asking too much. The French are with equal advantage content, So we clap on Dutch bottoms just twenty per cent.

There is nothing I know of so sublime as a fact.

Needy knife-grinder! whither are ye going? Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order; Bleak blows the blast-your hat has got a hole in it. So have your breeches.

A steady patriot of the world alone, The friend of every country but his own.