A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.

On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the Glowing Hours with Flying feet

The best prophet of the future is the past.

I awoke one morning and found myself famous.

I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library.

What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.

And angling too, that solitary vice, What Izaak Walton sings or says: The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.