Coleridge Received The Person From Porlock And

Truth Is Far And Flat, And Fancy Is Fiery; And Truth Is Cold, And People Feel The Cold, And They May Wrap Themselves Against It In Fancies That Are Fiery, But They Should Not Call Them Facts; And, Generally, Poets Do Not; They Are Shrewd, They Feel The Cold, Too, But They Know A Hawk From A Handsaw, A Fact From A Fancy, As None Knows Better.

The Religion Of Christianity Is Mixed Of Sweetness And Cruelty Reject This Sweetness, For She Wears A Smoky Dress Out Of Hell Fires.

If A Lady Comes Up To You And Tells You That Your Dear Mama Is Lying In A Faint On The Pavement Round The Corner, Don't You Believe Her, Don't Have Anything To Do With Her, Do Not Go With Her Into The Cab. It Is The White Slave Traffic.

If There Wasn't Death, I Think You Couldn't Go On.

This Englishwoman Is So Refined, She Has No Bosom And No Behind.