Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast.

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

Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features Are brought up, others by a warlike leader; Some by a place--as tend their years or natures; The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.

Self praise is no praise at all.

Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.

He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.