Some Saian mountaineer Struts today with my shield. I threw it down by a bush and ran When the fighting got hot. Life seemed somehow more precious. It was a beautiful shield. I know where I can buy another Exactly like it, just as round.
A Mother's love is something that no on can explain,It is made of deep devotionand of sacrifice and pain,It is endless and unselfishand enduring come what mayFor nothing can destroy itor take that love away . . .It is patient and forgivingwhen all others are forsaking,And it never fails or falterseven though the heart is breaking . . .It believes beyond believingwhen the world around condemns,And it glows with all the beautyof the rarest, brightest gems . . .It is far beyond defining,it defies all explanation,And it still remains a secretlike the mysteries of creation . . .A many splendoured miracleman cannot understandAnd another wondrous evidenceof God's tender guiding hand.
Anyone who says that economic security is a human right, has been to much babied. While he babbles, other men are risking and losing their lives to protect him. They are fighting the sea, fighting the land, fighting disease and insects and weather and space and time, for him, while he chatters that all men have a right to security and that some pagan god -- Society, The State, The Government, The Commune -- must give it to them. Let the fighting men stop fighting this inhuman earth for one hour, and he will learn how much security there is.
He showed, in a few words, that it is not sufficient to throw together a few incidents that are to be met with in every romance, and that to dazzle the spectator the thought should be new, without being farfetched; frequently sublime, but always natural; the author should have a thorough knowledge of the human heart and make it speak properly; he should be a complete poet, without showing an affectation of it in any of the characters of his piece; he should be a perfect master of his language, speak it with all its pruity and with the utmost harmony, and yet so as not to make the sense a slave to the rhyme. Whoever, added he, neglects any one of these rules, though he may write two or three tragedies with tolerable success, will never be reckoned in the number of good authors.