There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.

No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.

A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.

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

The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!

When was ever honey made with one bee in a hive?

But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!