Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.

May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.

And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.

As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.

He scratched his ear, the infallible resource to which embarrassed people have recourse.

The Christian has greatly the advantage of the unbeliever, having everything to gain and nothing to lose.

One hates an author that's all author.