Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, and yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
YOU MAY ALSO LIKE »
- For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest.
- When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation), sleep, eating and swilling, buttoning and unbuttoning — how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse.
- I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one’s partners in the waltz of this world –not much remembered when the ball is over.
- What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, is much more common where the climate’s sultry.
- But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew, upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
- There is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?