What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour: For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper," To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

I only know we loved in vain; I only feel-farewell! farewell!

To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.

I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.

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

Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?

And hold up to the sun my little taper.