From winter, plague and pestilence, good lord, deliver us!
Blest is that government where no art thrives.
Immortal Spenser, no frailty hath thy fame but the imputation of this idiot's friendship!
Poetry is the honey of all flowers, the quintessence of all sciences, the marrow of wit, and the very phrase of angels.
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king
New herrings, new!' we must cry, every time we make ourselves public, or else we shall be christened with a hundred new titles of idiotism.