Our spirits grow gray before our hairs.

You look wise, pray correct that error.

In some respects the better a book is, the less it demands from the binding.

Here cometh April again, and as far as I can see the world hath more fools in it than ever.

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.

Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are! From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

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