The clock of doom had struck as fated; the poet, without a sound, let fall his pistol on the ground.

The less we show our love to a woman, Or please her less, and neglect our duty, The more we trap and ruin her surely In the flattering toils of philandery.

Moscow... how many strains are fusing in that one sound, for Russian hearts! what store of riches it imparts!

Habit is Heaven's own redress: it takes the place of happiness.

I thank you doctor, but I am a dead man

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring lo…

So it goes.