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

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

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.

So down thy hill, romantic Ashbourn, glides The Derby dilly, carrying three INSIDES.

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

Intimately concerned as we are with the system of Europe, it does not follow that we are therefore called upon to mix ourselves onevery occasion, with a restless and meddling activity, in the concerns of the nations which surround us.

Here's to the pilot that weathered the storm.