The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.

Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see a mountain in my life.

Nursed amid her [London's] noise, her crowds, her beloved smoke, what have I been doing all my life, if I have not lent out my heart with usury to such scenes?

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 be…