This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean
As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.
I have imbibed such a love for money that I keep some sequins in a drawer to count, and cry over them once a week.
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.
I am as comfortless as a pilgrim with peas in his shoes - and as cold as Charity, Chastity or any other Virtue.