Critics are already made.

I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.

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.

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; A single laugh demolish'd the right arm Of his own country.

One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.

Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast; Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so.