They never fail who die in a great cause.

If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad.

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded. That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

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

They say that Hope is happiness But genuine Love must prize the past; And Mem'ry wakes the thoughts that bless: They rose first -- they set the last. And all that mem'ry loves the most Was once our only hope to be: And all that hope adored and lost Hath melted into memory. Alas! It is delusion all-- The future cheats us from afar: Nor can we be what we recall, Nor dare we think on what we are.

All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.

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.