Dim With The Mist Of Years, Gray

Nothing So Fretful, So Despicable As A Scribbler, See What I Am, And What A Parcel Of Scoundrels I Have Brought About My Ears, And What Language I Have Been Obliged To Treat Them With To Deal With Them In Their Own Way; - All This Comes Of Authorship.

I Have Had, And May Have Still, A Thousand Friends, As They Are Called, In Life, Who Are Like One's Partners In The Waltz Of This World -not Much Remembered When The Ball Is Over.

You Should Have A Softer Pillow Than My Heart.

And Doubt And Discord Step 'twixt Thine And Thee.

I Have Not Loved The World, Nor The World Me.