A Blade Of Grass Is Always A

Lichfield, England. Swallows Certainly Sleep All Winter. A Number Of Them Conglobulate Together, By Flying Round And Round, And Then All In A Heap Throw Themselves Under Water, And Lye In The Bed Of A River.

I Inherited A Vile Melancholy From My Father, Which Has Made Me Mad All My Life, At Least Not Sober.

At Length Weariness Succeeds To Labor, And The Mind Lies At Ease In The Contemplation Of Her Own Attainments Without Any Desire Of New Conquests Or Excursions. This Is The Age Of Recollection And Narrative; The Opinions Are Settled, And The Avenues Of Apprehension Shut Against Any New Intelligence; The Days That Are To Follow Must Pass In The Inculcation Of Precepts Already Collected, And Assertion Of Tenets Already Received; Nothing Is Henceforward So Odious As Opposition, So Insolent As Doubt, Or So Dangerous As Novelty.

Differences, We Know, Are Never So Effectually Laid Asleep As By Some Common Calamity; An Enemy Unites All To Whom He Threatens Danger.

In Bed We Laugh, In Bed We Cry, And Born In Bed, In Bed We Die; The Near Approach A Bed May Show Of Human Bliss To Human Woe.