Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.

To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.

If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.