New Year's Day is every man's birthday.
We encourage one another in mediocrity.
The teller of a mirthful tale has latitude allowed him. We are content with less than absolute truth.
Man, while he loves, is never quite depraved.
Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken.
If there be a regal solitude, it is a sick-bed. How the patient lords it there!