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On with the dance! Let joy be undefined!
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Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunderstorm against the wind.
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I have imbibed such a love for money that I keep some sequins in a drawer to count, & cry over them once a week.
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I swims in the Tagus all across at once, and I rides on an ass or a mule, and swears Portuguese, and have got a diarrhea and bites from the mosquitoes. But what of that? Comfort must not be expected by folks that go a pleasuring.
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Lovers may be -- and indeed generally are -- enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations.
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