Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer.

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

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.

There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast that trusted to his truth

I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains.

Nothing so fretful, so despicable as a Scribbler, see what I am, and what a parcel of Scoundrels I have brought about my ears, and what language I have been obliged to treat them with to deal with them in their own way; - all this comes of Authorship.

This is the age of oddities let loose.