The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August

Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain

I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but as you will see, not infested with the mania.

Oh, nature's noblest gift, my grey goose quill, Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from the parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men.

And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.

Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.

I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.