Go! you may call it madness, folly; You shall not chase my gloom away! There 's such a charm in melancholy I would not if I could be gay.
The good are better made by ill, As odours crushed are sweeter still.
I lived to write, and wrote to live.
A man who attempts to read all the new productions must do as the flea does,--skip.
Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
Vast and deep the mountain shadows grew.