Next to dressing for a rout or ball, undressing is a woe.

With thee all tales are sweet; each clime has charms; earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.

Of all tales 'tis the saddest--and more sad, Because it makes us smile.

I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.

Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine.

Exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year.

What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour: For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper," To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.