Dim With The Mist Of Years, Gray

To Chase The Glowing Hours With Flying Feet.

Who Falls From All He Knows Of Bliss, Cares Little Into What Abyss.

The Fact Is That My Wife If She Had Common Sense Would Have More Power Over Me Than Any Other Whatsoever, For My Heart Always Alights Upon The Nearest Perch.

A Thousand Years May Scare Form A State. An Hour May Lay It In Ruins.

This Is The Patent-age Of New Inventions For Killing Bodies, And For Saving Souls, All Propagated With The Best Intentions; Sir Humphrey Davy's Lantern, By Which Coals Are Safely Mined For In The Mode He Mentions, Tombuctoo Travels, Voyages To The Poles, Are Ways To Benefit Mankind, As True, Perhaps, As Shooting Them At Waterloo.