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I Have Sometimes Thought Of The Final Cause Of Dogs Having Such Short Lives And I Am Quite Satisfied It Is In Compassion To The Human Race; For If We Suffer So Much In Losing A Dog After An Acquaintance Of Ten Or Twelve Years, What Would It Be If They Were To Live Double That Time?

-Walter Scott

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I Have Sometimes Thought

Walter Scott

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I Have Sometimes Thought Of The Final Cause Of Dogs Having Such Short Lives And I Am Quite Satisfied It Is In Compassion To The Human Race; For If We Suffer So Much In Losing A Dog After An Acquaintance Of Ten Or Twelve Years, What Would It Be If They Were To Live Double That Time?

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As Hope And Fear Alternate Chase Our Course Through Life's Uncertain Race.

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Then Hush Thee, My Darling, Take Rest While You May, For Strife Comes With Manhood, And Waking With Day.

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The Rose Is Fairest When 't Is Budding New, And Hope Is Brightest When It Dawns From Fears. The Rose Is Sweetest Wash'd With Morning Dew, And Love Is Loveliest When Embalm'd In Tears.

Chess Is A Sad Waste Of Brains.

I Will Tear This Folly From My Heart, Though Every Fibre Bleed As I Rend It Away!

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Will Future Ages Believe That Such Stupid Bigotry Ever Existed!

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But Woe Awaits A Country When She Sees The Tears Of Bearded Men.

Silence, Maiden; Thy Tongue Outruns Thy Discretion.

Heaven Know Its Time; The Bullet Has Its Billet

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But With Morning Cool Repentance Came.

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Honour Is A Homicide And A Bloodspiller, That Gangs About Making Frays In The Street; But Credit Is A Decent Honest Man, That Sits At Hame And Makes The Pat Play.

I Will Suppose That You Have No Friends To Share Or Rejoice In Your Success In Life — That You Cannot Look Back To Those To Whom You Owe Gratitude, Or Forward To Those To Whom You Ought To Afford Protection; But It Is No Less Incumbent On You To Move Steadily In The Path Of Duty — For Your Active Exertions Are Due Not Only To Society, But In Humble Titude To The Being Who Made You A Member Of It, With Powers To Serve Yourself And Others.

O Come Ye In Peace Here, Or Come Ye In War, Or To Dance At Our Bridal, Young Lord Lochinvar?

Profan'd The God-given Strength, And Marr'd The Lofty Line.

Here Eglantine Embalm'd The Air, Hawthorne And Hazel Mingled There; The Primrose Pale, And Violet Flower, Found In Each Cliff A Narrow Bower; Fox-glove And Nightshade, Side By Side, Emblems Of Punishment And Pride, Group'd Their Dark Hues With Every Stain The Weather-beaten Crags Retain.

A Thousand Fearful Images And Dire Suggestions Glance Along The Mind When It Is Moody And Discontented With Itself. Command Them To Stand And Show Themselves, And You Presently Assert The Power Of Reason Over Imagination.

Despite Those Titles, Power, And Pelf, The Wretch, Concentred All In Self, Living, Shall Forfeit Fair Renown, And, Doubly Dying, Shall Go Down To The Vile Dust, From Whence He Sprung, Unwept, Unhonor'd, And Unsung.

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