What's drinking? A mere pause from thinking!

My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

Grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

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

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.

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.