Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.

I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.

Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-'t is gone, and all is gray.

Hatred is the madness of the heart.

Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise!

Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact, in virtue's name, let Crabbe attest,- Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.

The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,-too many, yet how few!