Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.
The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.
The light that lies In woman's eyes.
As half in shade and half in sun This world along its path advances, May that side the sun 's upon Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances!
Cultivate simplicity, Coleridge.
A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game.