A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game.

Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea.

Oh for a tongue to curse the slave Whose treason, like a deadly blight, Comes o'er the councils of the brave, And blasts them in their hour of might!

Oh call it by some better name, For friendship sounds too cold.

This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow, Theres nothing true but Heaven.

Much depends upon when and where you read a book. In the five or six impatient minutes before the dinner is quite ready, who would think of taking up the Faerie Queen for a stopgap, or a volume of Bishop Andrews's Sermons?

When true hearts lie wither'd And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?