Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!

Time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne, When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, That spring-dew of the spirit! the heart's rain! Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please,—the more because they preach in vain,— Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after.

Never to talk to ones self is a form of hypocrisy

He scratched his ear, the infallible resource to which embarrassed people have recourse.

By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies.

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.