Where's The Snow That Fell The Year

Too Little Is It Considered, While We Gaze On Aristocratic Beauty, How Much Good Food, Soft Lying, Warm Wrapping, Ease Of Mind, Have To Do With The Attractions Which Command Our Admiration.

When Once The Itch Of Literature Comes Over A Man, Nothing Can Cure It But The Scratching Of A Pen. But If You Have Not A Pen, I Suppose You Must Scratch Any Way You Can.

The Neck On Which Diamonds Might Have Worthily Sparkled, Will Look Less Tempting When The Biting Winter Has Hung Icicles There For Gems.

For Dhrames Always Go By Conthraries, My Dear.

For A Ballad's A Thing You Expect To Find Lies In.