I Do Detest Everything Which Is Not

A Mighty Mass Of Brick, And Smoke, And Shipping, Dirty And Dusty, But As Wide As Eye Could Reach, With Here And There A Sail Just Skipping In Sight, Then Lost Amidst The Forestry Of Masts; A Wilderness Of Steeples Peeping On Tiptoe Through Their Sea-coal Canopy; A Huge, Dun Cupola, Like A Fools-cap Crown On A Fool's Head - And There Is London Town.

I Only Go Out To Get Me A Fresh Appetite For Being Alone.

Sighing That Nature Formed But One Such Man, And Broke The Die.

Her Great Merit Is Finding Out Mine; There Is Nothing So Amiable As Discernment.

Man Is In Part Divine, A Troubled Stream From A Pure Source.