Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.

Dreading that climax of all human ills the inflammation of his weekly bills.

A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.

Armenian is the language to speak with God.

One hates an author that's all author.

For through the South the custom still commands The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands.

Society is now one polished horde, formed of two mighty tries, the Bores and Bored.