'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.

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

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

A thousand years may scare form a state. An hour may lay it in ruins.

But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton; And, when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.

The premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting.

Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister