Across his face were the proof-sheets of his first, small, delicate-looking volume…A small page, the type black and still odorous!

Such was his toil, when one night coming home, / Such swell uncivil, who'd been out to roam / In search of lark, or some delicious gig / The mind delights in, when 'tis in prime twig,

I would not be caught dead in such a skimpy dress.

'A rubbernecker checking out where you lived.' / 'Why would anybody do that?' / 'I guess it kind of makes you a celebrity.'