Truth and fiction are so aptly mixed that all seems uniform and of a piece.

Let us not write at a loose rambling rate, in hope the world will wink at all our faults.

Grief dejects and wrings the tortured soul.

Abstruse and mystic thoughts you must express With painful care, but seeming easiness; For truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress.

The multitude is always wrong.

Words once spoken can never be recalled.

I will not quarrel with a slight mistake, Such as our nature's frailty may excuse.