Love Doesn't Hide. It Stays And Fights.

We Are The Buffoons Of Our Children.

Poetry Is A Whim Of Nature In Her Lighter Moods; It Requires Nothing But Its Own Madness And, Lacking That, It Becomes A Soundless Cymbal, A Belfry Without A Bell.

There Is No Food More Satiating Than Milk And Honey; And Just As Such Foods Produce Disgust For The Palate, So Perfumed And Gallant Words Make Our Ears Belch.

Nothing, It Appears To Me, Is Of Greater Value In A Man Than The Power Of Judgment; And The Man Who Has It May Be Compared To A Chest Filled With Books, For He Is The Son Of Nature And The Father Of Art.

Perfumed And Gallant Words Make Our Ears Belch.