I loved my country, and I hated him.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep.

Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.

The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.

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.

For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.

Come what may, I have been blest.