Blessings Of Your Heart, You Brew Good

This Sanguine Coward, This Bed-presser, This Horseback-breaker, This Huge Hill Of Flesh!

The Devil Knew What He Did When He Made Men Politic; He Crossed Himself By It.

I Am Misanthropos, And Hate Mankind, For Thy Part, I Do Wish Thou Wert A Dog, That I Might Love Thee Something.

The Eagle Suffers Little Birds To Sing, And Is Not Careful What They Mean Thereby, Knowing That With The Shadow Of His Wings He Can At Pleasure Stint Their Melody: Even So Mayest Thou The Giddy Men Of Rome.

We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On; And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.