A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that's the reason he himself's so dirty

If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die.

Just as old age is creeping on space, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company--the gout or stone.

I suppose we shall soon travel by air-vessels; make air instead of sea voyages; and at length find our way to the moon, in spite of the want of atmosphere.

Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.

Yes! Ready money is Aladdin's lamp.

But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.