How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.

Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.

...So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

Man disavows, and Deity disowns me: hell might afford my miseries a shelter; therefore hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all bolted against me.

No wisdom that she may gain by experience and reflection hereafter, will compensate the loss of her present hilarity.

Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.

We sacrifice to dress till household joys and comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, and keeps our larder lean.