Man is a gaming animal. He must always be trying to get the better in something or other.

Presents, I often say, endear absents.

Damn the age. I'll write for antiquity.

While childhood, and while dreams, producing childhood, shall be left, imagination shall not have spread her holy wings totally to fly the earth.

When true hearts lie wither'd And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

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.

Positively, the best thing a man can have to do, is nothing, and next to that perhaps — good works.