For Yesterday Was Once To-morrow.

Oh, What A Void There Is In Things.

Lives There The Man With Soul So Dead As To Disown The Wish To Merit The People's Applause, And Having Uttered Words Worthy To Be Kept In Cedar Oil To Latest Times, To Leave Behind Him Rhymes That Dread Neither Herrings Nor Frankincense.

Each Man Has His Fancy.

Your Knowing A Thing Is Nothing, Unless Another Knows You Know It.

And Don't Consult Anyone's Opinions But Your Own.