O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,

Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!

Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd

His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!

How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable

Seem to me all the uses of this world!

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act i. Sc. 2.

If solid happiness we prize,

Within our breast this jewel lies,

And they are fools who roam.

The world has nothing to bestow;

From our own selves our joys must flow,

And that dear hut, our home.

Nathaniel Cotton (1707-1788): The Fireside. Stanza 3.

Solid men of Boston, banish long potations!

Solid men of Boston, make no long orations!

Charles Morris (1739-1832): Pitt and Dundas's Return to London from Wimbledon. American Song. From Lyra Urbanica.

Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale,

Where in nice balance truth with gold she weighs,

And solid pudding against empty praise.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): The Dunciad. Book i. Line 52.