He Has Left Off Reading Altogether, To

Mother's Love Grows By Giving.

Fly Not Yet; 't Is Just The Hour When Pleasure, Like The Midnight Flower That Scorns The Eye Of Vulgar Light, Begins To Bloom For Sons Of Night And Maids Who Love The Moon.

May My Last Breath Be Drawn Through A Pipe, And Exhaled In A Jest.

Whose Wit In The Combat, As Gentle As Bright, Ne'er Carried A Heart-stain Away On Its Blade.

If Dirt Were Trumps, What Hands You Would Hold!