But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery, And what I write I cast upon the stream To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream.

For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.

Friendship is Love without his wings!

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

I should, many a good day, have blown my brains out, but for the recollection that it would have given pleasure to my mother-in-law.

I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse -- borne away with every breath!

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. An, nutbrown partridges! An, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.