None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.

I have always believed that all things depended upon Fortune, and nothing upon ourselves.

Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss.

Who then will explain the explanation?

Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

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.

Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze; When your affairs come round, one way or t'other, Go to the coffee house, and take another.