The Art Of Angling, The Cruelest, The

Life Is Too Short For Chess.

Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer For Other's Weal Avail'd On High, Mine Will Not All Be Lost In Air, But Waft Thy Name Beyond The Sky.

Though Sages May Pour Out Their Wisdom's Treasure, There Is No Sterner Moralist Than Pleasure.

It Is Singular How Soon We Lose The Impression Of What Ceases To Be Constantly Before Us. A Year Impairs, A Luster Obliterates. There Is Little Distinct Left Without An Effort Of Memory, Then Indeed The Lights Are Rekindled For A Moment - But Who Can Be Sure That The Imagination Is Not The Torch-bearer?

I've Seen Your Stormy Seas And Stormy Women, And Pity Lovers Rather More Than Seamen.