Books which are no books.

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been.

O money, money, how blindly thou hast been worshipped, and how stupidly abused! Thou are health and liberty and strength, and he that has thee may rattle his pockets at the foul fiend!

Thus, when the lamp that lighted The traveller at first goes out, He feels awhile benighted, And looks around in fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing, By cloudless starlight on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering As that light which Heaven sheds.

What have I gained by health? Intolerable dullness. What by mode meals? A total blank.

Gluttony and surfeiting are no proper occasions for thanksgiving.