In Delay There Lies No Plenty.

O, This Life Is Nobler Than Attending For A Check, Richer Than Doing Nothing For A Robe, Prouder Than Rustling In Unpaid-for Silk: Such Pain The Cap Of Him That Makes Him Fine Yet Keeps His Book Uncrossed.

I Can See He's Not In Your Good Books,' Said The Messenger. 'no, And If He Were I Would Burn My Library.

The Sun With One Eye Vieweth All The World.

The Stroke Of Death Is As A Lover's Pinch, Which Hurts And Is Desired.

Who Riseth From A Feast With That Keen Appetite That He Sits Down?