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.

A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.

The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, and feel for what their duty bids them do.

Self praise is no praise at all.

Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?

A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.

Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.