I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.

Religion-freedom-vengeance-what you will, A word's enough to raise mankind to kill.

But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

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.

He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace!

What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, is much more common where the climate's sultry.

This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.