Friend Of My Bosom, Thou More Than

't Is Sweet To Think That Where'er We Rove We Are Sure To Find Something Blissful And Dear; And That When We 're Far From The Lips We Love, We 've But To Make Love To The Lips We Are Near.

The Man Must Have A Rare Recipe For Melancholy, Who Can Be Dull In Fleet Street.

A Man Cannot Have A Pure Mind Who Refuses Apple Dumplings.

Not Childhood Alone, But The Young Man Till Thirty, Never Feels Practically That He Is Mortal.

The English Writer, Charles Lamb, Said One Day: "i Hate That Man." "but You Don't Know Him." "of Course, I Don't," Said Lamb. "do You Think I Could Possibly Hate A Man I Know?"