They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness.

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

The poor dog, in life the firmest friend. The first to welcome, foremost to defend.

But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

The fact is that my wife if she had common sense would have more power over me than any other whatsoever, for my heart always alights upon the nearest perch.

Mark! Where his carnage and his conquests cease, He makes a solitude and calls it-peace!

A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.