Come swish around, my pretty punk,And keep me dancing stillThat I may stay a sober manAlthough I drink my fill.

What shall I do for pretty girlsNow my old bawd is dead?

My fiftieth year had come and gone,I sat, a solitary man,In a crowded London shop,And open book and empty cupOn the marble table-top.

An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress

It is a hard thing to be married to a man of learning that must always be having arguments.

It is not permitted to a man who takes up pen or chisel, to seek originality, for passion is his only business, and he cannot but mould or sing after a new fashion because no disaster is like another.