Taste is the power of relishing or rejecting whatever is offered for the entertainment of the imagination.

To the last moment of his breath, On hope the wretch relies; And even the pang preceding death Bids expectation rise.

In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stagecoach.

[T]here are depths of thousands of miles which are hidden from our inquiry. The only tidings we have from those unfathomable regions are by means of volcanoes, those burning mountains that seem to discharge their materials from the lowest abysses of the earth.

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace the day's disasters in his morning face.

A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.

Silence is become his mother tongue.