My Only Books Were Woman's Looks,- And

Riches Are Chiefly Good Because They Give Us Time.

Summer, As My Friend Coleridge Waggishly Writes, Has Set In With Its Usual Severity.

(the Pig) Hath A Fair Sepulchre In The Grateful Stomach Of The Judicious Epicure - And For Such A Tomb Might Be Content To Die.

How Sickness Enlarges The Dimension Of A Man’s Self To Himself!

Man Is A Gaming Animal.