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Far transcend my weak invention.’Tis a simple Christian child,Missionary young and mild,From her store of script’ral knowledge (Bible-taught without a college) Which by reading she could gather, Teaches him to say Our Father To the common Parent, who Colour not respects nor hue. White and Black in him have part, Who looks not to the skin, but heart.
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Some people have a knack of putting upon you gifts of no real value, to engage you to substantial gratitude. We thank them for nothing.
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Here cometh April again, and as far as I can see the world hath more fools in it than ever.
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My motto is: Contented with little, yet wishing for more.
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Anything awful makes me laugh. I misbehaved once at a funeral.
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For thy sake, tobacco, I would do anything but die.
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The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.
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The pilasters reaching down were adorned with a glistering substance (I know not what) under glass (as it seemed), resembling-a homely fancy, but I judged it to be sugar-candy; yet to my raised imagination, divested of its homelier qualities, it appeared a glorified candy.
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Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.
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The beggar wears all colors fearing none.
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I'd like to grow very old as slowly as possible.
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Please to blot out gentle hearted, and substitute drunken dog, ragged head, seld-shaven, odd-ey'd, stuttering, or any other epithet which truly and properly belongs to the Gentleman in question.
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Nothing puzzles me more than the time and space; and yet nothing troubles me less.
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I like you and your book, ingenious Hone!In whose capacious all-embracing leavesThe very marrow of tradition 's shown;And all that history, much that fiction weaves.
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This very night I am going to leave off Tobacco! Surely there must be some other world in which this unconquerable purpose shall be realized.
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Presents, I often say, endear absents.
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Severe and saintly righteousnessComposed the clear white bridal dress;Jesus, the Son of Heaven's high King Bought with his blood the marriage ring
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It is good to love the unknown.
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Newspapers always excite curiosity. No one ever puts one down without the feeling of disappointment.
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Fanny Kelly's divine plain face.
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Each day used to be individually felt by me in its reference to the foreign post days; in its distance from, or propinquity to, the next Sunday. I had my Wednesday feelings, my Saturday nights’ sensations.
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From a poor man, poor in Time, I was suddenly lifted up into a vast revenue; I could see no end of my possessions; I wanted some steward, or judicious bailiff, to manage my estates in Time for me.
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I have done all that I came into this world to do. I have worked task work, and have the rest of the day to myself.
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Of Coleridge His face when he repeats his verses hath its ancient glory, an Archangel a little damaged.