It's not the sort of night for bed, anyhow.
Abstruse and mystic thoughts you must express With painful care, but seeming easiness; For truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress.
Choose an author as you would a friend.
The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound, Shall thro' the rending tombs rebound, And wake the nations under ground.
The men, who labour and digest things most, Will be much apter to despond than boast; For if your author be profoundly good, 'Twill cost you dear before he's understood.
Tis I that call, remember Milo's end, Wedged in that timber which he strove to rend.
Praise Him, each savage furious beast That on His stores do daily feast; And you tame slaves, of the laborious plough, Your weary knees to your Creator bow.
I bought a book of Mark Twain quotes. That's about my speed. I'll read a couple quotes and put it down.
I'm not a huge fan of plastic surgery, for either guys or girls.
If you want me. . . you’ve got me.
On the Avenue in front of the White House were several hundred colored people, mostly women and children, weeping and wailing their loss. This crowd did not diminish through the whole of that cold, wet day; they seemed not to know what was to by their fate since their great benefactor was dead, and though strong and brave men wept when I met them, the hopeless grief of those poor colored people affected me more than almost anything else.