Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream's, like a meteor, to the troubled air.

Those curious locks so aptly twin'd, Whose every hair a soul doth bind.

But she is vanish'd to her shady home Under the deep, inscrutable; and there Weeps in a midnight made of her own hair.

If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.

Commerce changes the fate and genius of nations.

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, He had not the method of making a fortune.