Some Touch Of Nature's Genial

Sleep The Sleep That Knows Not Breaking, Morn Of Toil, Nor Night Of Waking.

I Will But Confess The Sins Of My Green Cloak To My Grey Friar's Frock, And All Shall Be Well Again.

War Is The Only Game In Which Both Sides Lose.

Good Wine Needs Neither Bush Nor Preface To Make It Welcome. And They Drank The Red Wine Through The Helmet Barr'd.

You Will, I Trust, Resemble A Forest Plant, Which Has Indeed, By Some Accident, Been Brought Up In The Greenhouse, And Thus Rendered Delicate And Effeminate, But Which Regains Its Native Firmness And Tenacity, When Exposed For A Season To The Winter Air.