Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep: and yet a third of Life is passed in sleep |
Did ye not hear it? - No; 'twas but the wind, / Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;/ On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; / No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet / To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. |
Dreading that climax of all human ills, / The inflammation of his weekly bills. |
Even I / Regained my freedom with a sigh. |
Every day confirms my opinion on the superiority of a vicious life -- and if Virtue is not its own reward I don't know any other stipend annexed to it. |
Every sense hath been o'erstrung, and each frail fibre of the brain sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide |
Explaining metaphysics to the nation - / I wish he would explain his explanation. |
Fame is the thirst of youth. |
Fare thee well! and if for ever, / Still for ever, fare thee well. |
Folly loves the martyrdom of fame. |
Fools are my theme; let satire be my song. |
For Freedom's battle once begun, / Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son, / Though baffled oft is ever won. |
For in itself a thought, a slumbering thought, is capable of years, and curdles a long life into one hour. |
For most men (till by losing rendered sager), Will back their own opinions by a wager |
For pleasures past I do not grieve, nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave nothing that claims a tear. |