The Drinking Man Is Never Less Himself

English Physicians Kill You, The French Let You Die.

I Am In Love With This Green Earth.

A Clear Fire, A Clean Hearth, And The Rigour Of The Game.

To Sigh, Yet Feel No Pain; To Weep, Yet Scarce Know Why; To Sport An Hour With Beauty's Chain, Then Throw It Idly By.

Books Of Quick Interest, That Hurry On For Incidents Are For The Eye To Glide Over Only. It Will Not Do To Read Them Out. I Could Never Listen To Even The Better Kind Of Modern Novels Without Extreme Irksomeness.