I deny nothing, but doubt everything.

Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!

They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness.

So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.

The great object of life is Sensation - to feel that we exist - even though in pain - it is this "craving void" which drives us to gaming - to battle - to travel - to intemperate but keenly felt pursuits of every description whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment.

No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!