Man is a gaming animal.

A child's nature is too serious a thing to admit of its being regarded as a mere appendage to another being.

The most mortifying infirmity in human nature, to feel in ourselves, or to contemplate in another, is perhaps cowardice.

The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er; And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more.

And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

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

Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade.