If a faultless poem could be produced, I am satisfied it would tire the critics themselves; and annoy the whole reading world with the spleen.

What can they see in the longest kingly line in Europe, save that it runs back to a successful soldier?

Never was flattery lost on a poet's ear; a simple race, they waste their toil for the vain tribute of a smile.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land.

It is a great disgrace to religion, to imagine that it is an enemy to mirth and cheerfulness, and a severe exacter of pensive looks and solemn faces.

Many a law, many a commandment have I broken, but my word never.

A fool's wild speech confounds the wise.