One hates an author that's all author.

All tragedies are finished by a death, All comedies are ended by a marriage.

If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.

Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger; opens a new world When this, the present, palls.

There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.

For pleasures past I do not grieve, nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave nothing that claims a tear.

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne, When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, That spring-dew of the spirit! the heart's rain! Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please,—the more because they preach in vain,— Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after.