Half As Sober As A Judge.

The Only True Time Which A Man Can Properly Call His Own, Is That Which He Has All To Himself; The Rest, Though In Some Sense He May Be Said To Live It, Is Other People's Time, Not His.

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

I Am, In Plainer Words, A Bundle Of Prejudices - Made Up Of Likings And Dislikings.

A Flow'ret Crushed In The Bud, A Nameless Piece Of Babyhood, Was In Her Cradle-coffin Lying; Extinct, With Scarce The Sense Of Dying

To Be Sick Is To Enjoy Monarchical Prerogatives.