I always arrive late at the office, but I make up for it by leaving early.

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

Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?

A babe is fed with milk and praise.

The red-letter days, now become, to all intents and purposes, dead-letter days.

For thy sake, tobacco, I would do anything but die.

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.