It is odd but agitation or contest of any kind gives a rebound to my spirits and sets me up for a time.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.

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

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

And then he danced,-all foreigners excel the serious Angels in the eloquence of pantomime;-he danced, I say, right well, with emphasis, and a'so with good sense-a thing in footing indispensable: he danced without theatrical pretence, not like a ballet-master in the van of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.

No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed.

Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister