The train was crammed, the heat stifling. We feel out of sorts, but do not quite know if we are hungry or drowsy. But when we have fed and slept, life will regain its looks, and the American instruments will make music in the merry cafe described by our friend Lange. And then, sometime later, we die.
—Vladimir Nabokov (1899–1977)
When the enterprising burglar isn’t burgling,
When the cut-throat isn’t occupied in crime,
He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling,
And listen to the merry village chime.
—Sir William Schwenck Gilbert (1836–1911)
These ice-cutters are a merry race, full of jest and sport, and when I went among them they were wont to invite me to saw pit-fashion with them, I standing underneath.
—Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862)