I Have Loved My Friends As I

Miserable Men Commiserate Not Themselves; Bowelless Unto Others, And Merciless Unto Their Own Bowels.

For The World, I Count It Not An Inn, But A Hospital; And A Place Not To Live, But To Die In.

Be Thou What Thou Singly Art And Personate Only Thyself. Swim Smoothly In The Stream Of Thy Nature And Live But One Man.

There Are No Grotesques In Nature; Not Anything Framed To Fill Up Empty Cantons, And Unnecessary Spaces.

Let Age, Not Envy, Draw Wrinkles On Thy Cheeks.