But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.
There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.
Never to talk to ones self is a form of hypocrisy
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.
My great comfort is, that the temporary celebrity I have wrung from the world has been in the very teeth of all opinions and prejudices. I have flattered no ruling powers; I have never concealed a single thought that tempted me.
May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.