Curiosity kills itself; and love is only curiosity, as is proved by its end.

This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.

I am about to be married, and am of course in all the misery of a man in pursuit of happiness.

I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.

By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies.

For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?

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.