Man is a gaming animal.

Satire does not look pretty upon a tombstone.

Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below?

Fly not yet; 't is just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon.

Cards are war, in disguise of a sport.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.

Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.