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

I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it.

The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep.

Reason is so unreasonable, that few people can say they are in possession of it.

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.

Every day confirms my opinion on the superiority of a vicious life, and if Virtue is not its own reward, I don't know any other stipend annexed to it.