Each Man Has His Fancy.

The Belly Is The Giver Of Genius.

The Man Who Wishes To Bend Me With His Tale Of Woe Must Shed True Tears - Not Tears That Have Been Got Ready Overnight.

But When To-morrow Comes, Yesterday's Morrow Will Have Been Already Spent: And Lo! A Fresh Morrow Will Be For Ever Making Away With Our Years, Each Just Beyond Our Grasp.

Let Them (the Wicked) See The Beauty Of Virtue, And Pine At Having Forsaken Her. [lat., Virtutem Videant, Intabescantque Relicta.]

Things Fit Only To Give Weight To Smoke.