"Thou wilt not taste life till thou hast sipped the nectar from a pair of rose-red lips--thou shalt not guess the riddle of the stars till thou hast gazed deep down into the fathomless glory of a maiden's eyes--thou canst not know delight till thou hast clasped eager arms round a coy waist and heard the beating of a passionate heart against thine own! A truce to thy musty volumes! Believe it, those ancient and sorrowful philosophers had no manhood in them--their blood was water--and their slanders against women were but the pettish utterances of their own deserved disappointments.

Those who miss the chief prize of life would fain persuade others that it is not worth having.

What, man! Thou, with a ready wit, a glancing eye, a gay smile, a supple form, thou wilt not enter the lists of love?
What says Voltaire of the blind god?
"'Qui que tu sois voila ton maitre, Il fut--il est--ou il doit etre!'" When my friend spoke thus I smiled, but answered nothing.

His arguments failed to convince me.

Yet I loved to hear him talk--his voice was mellow as the note of a thrush, and his eyes had an eloquence greater than all speech.