Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.

Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue By female lips and eyes--that is, I mean, When both the teacher and the taught are young, As was the case, at least, where I have been; They smile so when one's right; and when one's wrong They smile still more.

Hatred is the madness of the heart.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. An, nutbrown partridges! An, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come.

A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.

Let none think to fly the danger for soon or late love is his own avenger.