Come what may, I have been blest.

I have imbibed such a love for money that I keep some sequins in a drawer to count, and cry over them once a week.

Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber!

Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din; Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

Land of lost gods and godlike men.

Tis the perception of the beautiful, A fine extension of the faculties, Platonic, universal, wonderful, Drawn from the stars, and filtered through the skies, Without which life would be extremely dull

I have not loved the world, nor the world me.