This is the patent age of new inventions for killing bodies, and for saving souls. All propagated with the best intentions.

Muse of the many twinkling feet, whose charms are now extending up from legs to arms.

It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; A single laugh demolish'd the right arm Of his own country.

There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.

As to Don Juan, confess that it is the sublime of that there sort of writing; it may be bawdy, but is it not good English? It may be profligate, but is it not life, is it not the thing? Could any man have written it who has not lived in the world? and tooled in a post-chaise? in a hackney coach? in a Gondola? against a wall? in a court carriage? in a vis a vis? on a table? and under it?

In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee