For they ſhall yet belye thy happy yeeres, That ſay thou art a man: Dianas lip Is not more ſmooth, and rubious: thy ſmall pipe Is as the maidens organ, ſhrill, and ſound, And all is ſemblatiue a womans part.

I remember playing card games with my grandfather. Games of memory, not of skill. If I won, he gave me sixpence; if he won, he didn't. We would play until I was bored, or until he ran out of sixpences.

Van Beethoven's ninth symphony is a tremendous piece of music.

The eremitic instinct.