Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?

Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.

A sweet child is the sweetest thing in nature.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?

I am Retired Leisure. I am to be met with in trim gardens. I am already come to be known by my vacant face and careless gesture, perambulating at no fixed pace nor with any settled purpose. I walk about; not to and from.

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

I mean your borrowers of books - those mutilators of collections, spoilers of the symmetry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes.