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.

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

Away with the cant of 'Measures not men!'-the idle supposition that it is the harness and not the horses that draw the chariot along.

When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep?

Here's to the pilot that weathered the storm.

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.