Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it.

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!

I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.

And hold up to the sun my little taper.

I am as comfortless as a pilgrim with peas in his shoes - and as cold as Charity, Chastity or any other Virtue.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.