Remorse, The Fatal Egg That Pleasure Laid.

He That Has Seen Both Sides Of Fifty Has Lived To Little Purpose If He Has No Other Views Of The World Than He Had When He Was Much Younger.

Strange As It May Seem, The Most Ludicrous Lines I Ever Wrote Have Been Written In The Saddest Mood.

Poor England! Thou Art A Devoted Deer, Beset With Every Ill But That Of Fear. The Nations Hunt; All Mock Thee For A Prey; They Swarm Around Thee, And Thou Stand'st At Bay.

Mansions Once Knew Their Own Masters, And Laborious Hinds, That Had Surviv'd The Father, Serv'd The Son. Now The Legitimate And Rightful Lord Is But A Transient Guest, Newly Arrived, And Soon To Be Supplanted. He That Saw His Patrimonial Timber Cast Its Leaf, Sells The Last Scantling, And Transfers The Price To Some Shrewd Sharper Ere It Buds Again. Estates Are Landscapes, Gazed Upon Awhile, Then Advertised And Auctioneer'd Away.

They Love The Country, And None Else, Who Seek For Their Own Sake Its Silence And Its Shade. Delights Which Who Would Leave, That Has A Heart Susceptible Of Pity, Or A Mind Cultured And Capable Of Sober Thought.