I Entrench Myself In My Books Equally

Beauty Too Often Sacrifices To Fashion.

Affection, Like Melancholy, Magnifies Trifles.

There Seems A Life In Hair, Though It Be Dead.

The Fish Is Swift, Small-needing, Vague Yet Clear, A Cold, Sweet, Silver Life, Wrapped In Round Waves.

Fishes Do Not Roar; They Cannot Express Any Sound Of Suffering; And Therefore The Angler Chooses To Think They Do Not Suffer, More Than It Is Convenient For Him To Fancy. Now It Is A Poor Sport That Depends For Its Existence On The Want Of A Voice In The Sufferer, And Of Imagination In The Sportsman.