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.
To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.
A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game.
How sickness enlarges the dimension of a man’s self to himself!
New Year's Day is every man's birthday.
You may derive thoughts from others; your way of thinking, the mould in which your thoughts are cast, must be your own.