O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!
Chess is a sad waste of brains.
Love will subsist on wonderfully little hope but not altogether without it.
But with morning cool repentance came.
Adversity is, to me at least, a tonic and a bracer.
Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand!