There is a vulgar incredulity, which in historical matters, as well as in those of religion, finds it easier to doubt than to examine.

The sickening pang of hope deferr'd.

Profan'd the God-given strength, and marr'd the lofty line.

Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell.

Greatness of any kind has no greater foe than a habit of drinking.

No scene of mortal life but teems with mortal woe.

Heap on more wood! - the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still.