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Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.

Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land--Good Night!

Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!

I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.

Sofas 'twas half a sin to sit upon, So costly were they; carpets, every stitch Of workmanship so rare, they make you wish You could glide o'er them like a golden fish.

I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies! If captains the remark, or critics, make, Why they lie also--under a mistake.

And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but The truth in masquerade.

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?

I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.

For talk six times with the same single lady, And you may get the wedding dress ready.

There was no great disparity of years, Though much in temper; but they never clash'd, They moved like stars united in their spheres, Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd, Where mingled and yet separate appears The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd Through the serene and placid glassy deep, Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep.

This is the way that physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem: but although we sneer In health--when ill, we call them to attend us, Without the least propensity to jeer.

Yet how much less it were to gain, Though thou hast left me free, The loveliest things that still remain, Than thus remember thee.

It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment -- but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?

When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter." And proved it--'t was no matter what he said.

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.

How beauteous are rouleaus! how charming chests Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins of find unclipt gold, where dully rests Some likeness, which the glittering cirque confines, Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp;-- Yes! ready money is Aladdin's lamp.

The devil's in the moon for mischief; they Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon Their nomenclature; there is not a day, The longest, not the twenty-first of June, Sees half the business in a wicked way, On which three single hours of moonshine smile-- And then she looks so modest all the while!

Rough Johnson, the great moralist.