Ill Fares The Land, To Hastening Ills

Where'er I Roam, Whatever Realms To See, My Heart Untravelled, Fondly Turns To Thee; Still To My Brother Turns, With Ceaseless Pain, And Drags At Each Remove A Lengthening Chain.

One Writer, For Instance, Excels At A Plan Or A Title Page, Another Works Away At The Body Of The Book, And A Third Is A Dab At An Index.

The Bashful Virgin's Sidelong Looks Of Love.

Vain, Very Vain, My Weary Search To Find That Bliss Which Only Centers In The Mind.

As Writers Become More Numerous, It Is Natural For Readers To Become More Indolent; Whence Must Necessarily Arise A Desire Of Attaining Knowledge With The Greatest Possible Ease.