The Cardinal is at his wit's end - it is true that he had not far to go.

The dew of compassion is a tear.

I have a passion for the name of "Mary," For once it was a magic sound to me, And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be.

Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

I really cannot know whether I am or am not the Genius you are pleased to call me, but I am very willing to put up with the mistake, if it be one.

If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.

A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that's the reason he himself's so dirty