History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page.

Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.

Physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem; but although we sneer - In health - when ill we call them to attend us, Without the least propensity to jeer

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

Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.

There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.

A man must serve his time to every trade, Save censure-critics all are ready made. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote With just enough learning to misquote.