Bells are musics laughter.

When Eve upon the first of Men The apple press'd with specious cant, Oh! what a thousand pities then That Adam was not Adamant!

Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!

For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.

I resolved that, like the sun, as long as my day lasted, I would look on the bright side of everything.

Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.

The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!