Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?

I have a great mind to believe in Christianity for the mere pleasure of fancying I may be damned.

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.

This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.

There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.

And then he danced,-all foreigners excel the serious Angels in the eloquence of pantomime;-he danced, I say, right well, with emphasis, and a'so with good sense-a thing in footing indispensable: he danced without theatrical pretence, not like a ballet-master in the van of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.