May My Last Breath Be Drawn Through

Every Commonplace Or Trite Observation Is Not A Truism.

English Physicians Kill You, The French Let You Die.

You Do Not Play Then At Whist, Sir? Alas, What A Sad Old Age You Are Preparing For Yourself!

How I Like To Be Liked, And What I Do To Be Liked!

Oft In The Stilly Night, Ere Slumber's Chain Has Bound Me, Fond Memory Brings The Light Of Other Days Around Me; The Smiles, The Tears, Of Boyhood's Years, The Words Of Love Then Spoken; The Eyes That Shone Now Dimmed And Gone, The Cheerful Hearts Now Broken.