As to Don Juan, confess that it is the sublime of that there sort of writing; it may be bawdy, but is it not good English? It may be profligate, but is it not life, is it not the thing? Could any man have written it who has not lived in the world? and tooled in a post-chaise? in a hackney coach? in a Gondola? against a wall? in a court carriage? in a vis a vis? on a table? and under it?

The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.

One hates an author that's all author.

Talent may be in time forgiven, but genius never

So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death.

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!

I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor.