The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er; And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more.

To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.

Riches are chiefly good because they give us time.

Cultivate simplicity, Coleridge.

In every thing that relates to science, I am a whole Encyclopaedia behind the rest of the world.

Books think for me. I can read anything which I call a book.

When I am not walking, I am reading. I cannot sit and think.