I am at length joined to Bologna, where I am settled like a sausage. - Lord Byron

But suppose it past, — suppose one of these men, as I have seen them meagre with famine, sullen with despair, careless of a life which your lordships are perhaps about to value at something less than the price of a stocking-frame ; suppose this man surrounded by those children for whom he is unable to procure bread at the hazard of his existence, about to be torn for ever from a family which he lately supported in peaceful industry, and which it is not his fault than he can no longer so support; suppose this man — and there are ten thousand such from whom you may select your victims, — dragged into court to be tried for this new offence, by this new law, — still there are two things wanting to convict and condemn him, and these are, in my opinion, twelve butchers for a jury, and a Jefferies for a judge!

Farewell! For in that word, that fatal word,—howe'er
We promise, hope, believe,—there breathes despair.

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.