I Have Wandered All My Life, And

That I Grow Sour, Who Only Lack Delight; That I Descend To Sneer, Who Only Grieve: That From My Depth I Should Contemn Your Height; That With My Blame My Mockery You Receive; Huntress And Splendour Of The Woodland Night, Diana Of This World, Do Not Believe.

We Cannot Make Owners By Merely Giving Men Something To Own. And, I Repeat, Whether There Be Sufficient Desire For Property Left Upon Which We Can Work, Only Experience Can Decide.

Wherever The Catholic Sun Doth Shine, There’s Always Laughter And Good Red Wine. At Least I’ve Always Found It So. Benedicamus Domino!

I'm Tired Of Love; I'm Still More Tired Of Rhyme; But Money Gives Me Pleasure All The Time.

For No One, In Our Long Decline, So Dusty, Spiteful And Divided, Had Quite Such Pleasant Friends As Mine, Or Loved Them Half As Much As I Did.