Mingle, mingle

“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.”

― Lord Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage



A Chat With George

‘Death, so called, is a thing that makes men weep. And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.’

Yes, but it’s your snoring keeps me awake, George.

‘Always laugh when you can, it is cheap medicine.’

Cheaper than Laudanum.

‘A drop of ink makes a million think.’

Think? Really?

‘She walks in beauty, like the night.’

I know, but do you realise how old she is , George?

‘History, with all her volumes vast, hath but one page.’

Have you even started Mr.Gibbon’s book?

‘Life’s too short.’

Well, you’ve got a point there.

‘A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.’

Are you getting at me now?

‘Society is now one polished hoard, formed on the two mighty tribes, the Bores and the Bored.’

I’m going, then, if you’re getting bored.