Do Not Fold, Spindle Or Mutilate.

The Man Must Have A Rare Recipe For Melancholy, Who Can Be Dull In Fleet Street.

I Like You And Your Book, Ingenious Hone! In Whose Capacious All-embracing Leaves The Very Marrow Of Tradition 's Shown; And All That History, Much That Fiction Weaves.

I Counsel Thee, Shut Not Thy Heart, Nor Thy Library.

Anything Awful Makes Me Laugh. I Misbehaved Once At A Funeral.

Thus, When The Lamp That Lighted The Traveller At First Goes Out, He Feels Awhile Benighted, And Looks Around In Fear And Doubt. But Soon, The Prospect Clearing, By Cloudless Starlight On He Treads, And Thinks No Lamp So Cheering As That Light Which Heaven Sheds.