Satire Does Not Look Pretty Upon A

When I Am Not Walking, I Am Reading. I Cannot Sit And Think.

Summer, As My Friend Coleridge Waggishly Writes, Has Set In With Its Usual Severity.

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.

Cards Are War, In Disguise Of A Sport.

A Miser Is Sometimes A Grand Personification Of Fear. He Has A Fine Horror Of Poverty; And He Is Not Content To Keep Want From The Door, Or At Arm's Length, But He Places It, By Heaping Wealth Upon Wealth, At A Sublime Distance!