I used to call myself a Roman, you know, and grow hot with pride when I thought of it.

Those were dreams.

Oh, I was to do wonderful things! Poetry was to make me rich, and then I would go and live in Italy, and fill my lungs with the breath of the Forum, and write my great Epic.

How good that we can't foresee our lives!" "I wish to heaven," Waymark exclaimed, when they were parting, "that you would be a man and shake this monstrous yoke from off your neck! It is that that is killing you.

Give yourself a chance.