We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name.

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

Man, while he loves, is never quite depraved.

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

The beggar wears all colors fearing none.

You look wise, pray correct that error.

If there be a regal solitude, it is a sick-bed. How the patient lords it there!