Old man! 'Tis not difficult to die.

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.

A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think.

So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death.

My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?

The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.