Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.

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

The Cardinal is at his wit's end - it is true that he had not far to go.

And angling too, that solitary vice, What Izaak Walton sings or says: The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.

May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.

There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.