Grief dejects and wrings the tortured soul.

What you keep by you, you may change and mend but words, once spoken, can never be recalled.

Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense.

The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound, Shall thro' the rending tombs rebound, And wake the nations under ground.

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

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

Words are like leaves; some wither every year, and every year a younger race succeed.