'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world; to see the stir Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy co…

O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!

So manifold, all pleasing in their kind, All healthful, are the employs of rural life, Reiterated as the wheel of time, Runs round; still ending, and beginning…

If you're looking for a cheap sort Glint with perspiration There's a five mile queue Outside the disused powerstation

It is almost impossible to bear the torch of truth through a crowd without singeing somebody's beard.

Today's shocks are tomorrow's conventions.