True love's the gift which God has given To man alone beneath the heaven: It is not fantasy's hot fire, Whose wishes soon as granted fly; It liveth not in fierce desire.

Meat eaten without either mirth or music is ill of digestion.

Give me an honest laugher.

Chess is a sad waste of brains.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like young Lochinvar.

The misery of keeping a dog is his dying so soon. But, to be sure, if he lived for fifty years and then died, what would become of me?

Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land.