Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise!
The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.
The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
I have a notion that gamblers are as happy as most people - being always excited.
In solitude, when we are least alone.