Life Is Too Short For Chess.

Sleep Hath Its Own World, And The Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

Glory, Like The Phoenix 'midst Her Fires, Exhales Her Odours, Blazes, And Expires.

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar? The Hearts Bleed Longest, And Heals But To Wear That Which Disfigures It.

So Sweet The Blush Of Bashfulness, E'en Pity Scarce Can Wish It Less!

I Am Acquainted With No Immaterial Sensuality So Delightful As Good Acting.