Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

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.

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

Fills The air around with beauty.

There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.

Like other parties of the kind, it was first silent, then talky, then argumentative, then disputatious, then unintelligible, then altogether, then inarticulate, and then drunk. When we had reached the last step of this glorious ladder, it was difficult to get down again without stumbling.

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