The True Poet Dreams Being Awake.

A Persian's Heaven Is Eas'ly Made: 't Is But Black Eyes And Lemonade.

The Red-letter Days, Now Become, To All Intents And Purposes, Dead-letter Days.

Oh Stay! Oh Stay! Joy So Seldom Weaves A Chain Like This To-night, That Oh 't Is Pain To Break Its Links So Soon.

A Laugh Is Worth A Hundred Groans In Any Market.

I Can Scarce Bring Myself To Believe, That I Am Admitted To A Familiar Correspondence, And All The License Of Friendship, With A Man Who Writes Blank Verse Like Milton.