For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of Lochinvar.
O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!
One hour of life, crowded to the full with glorious action, and filled with noble risks, is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum, in which men steal through existence, like sluggish waters through a marsh, without either honor or observation.
Is death the last sleep? No, it is the last and final awakening.
Meat eaten without either mirth or music is ill of digestion.
Fortune may raise up or abuse the ordinary mortal, but the sage and the soldier should have minds beyond her control.