'Tis very certain the desire of life prolongs it.

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

Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.

But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton; And, when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.

The poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still the master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth, While man, vain insect hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.

I loved my country, and I hated him.

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.