He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.
Repentance is but want of power to sin.
Raw in the fields the rude militia swarms, Mouth without hands; maintained at vast expense, In peace a charge, in war a weak defence.
Merit challenges envy.
Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.
What judgment I had increases rather than diminishes; and thoughts, such as they are, come crowding in so fast upon me, that my only difficulty is to choose or reject; to run them into verse or to give them the other harmony of prose.