Vain, Very Vain, My Weary

A Book May Be Very Amusing With Numerous Errors, Or It May Be Very Dull Without A Single Absurdity.

Man Seems The Only Growth That Dwindles Here.

Could A Man Live By It, It Were Not Unpleasant Employment To Be A Poet.

Processions, Cavalcades, And All That Fund Of Gay Frippery, Furnished Out By Tailors, Barbers, And Tire-women, Mechanically Influence The Mind Into Veneration; An Emperor In His Nightcap Would Not Meet With Half The Respect Of An Emperor With A Crown.

Man Wants But Little Here Below, Nor Wants That Little Long.