Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
Cards are war, in disguise of a sport.
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
To sigh, yet feel no pain; To weep, yet scarce know why; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by.
If there be a regal solitude, it is a sick-bed. How the patient lords it there!
No one ever regarded the First of January with indifference. It is that from which all date their time, and count upon what is left. It is the nativity of our common Adam.