Chess is a sad waste of brains.

In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.

Adversity is like the period of the rain. . . cold, comfortless, unfriendly to people and to animals; yet from that season have their birth the flower, the fruit, the date, the rose and the pomegranate.

Commend me to sterling honesty though clad in rags.

What skilful limner e'er would choose To paint the rainbow's varying hues, Unless to mortal it were given To dip his brush in dyes of heaven?

Spangling the wave with lights as vain As pleasures in the vale of pain, That dazzle as they fade.

A rusted nail, placed near the faithful compass, Will sway it from the truth, and wreck the argosy.