Not At All Similar Are The Race

Know From The Bounteous Heaven All Riches Flow.

Wine Lead To Folly, Making Even The Wise To Laugh Immoderately, To Dance, And To Utter What Had Better Have Been Kept Silent.

Two Diverse Gates There Are Of Bodiless Dreams, These Of Sawn Ivory, And Those Of Horn. Such Dreams As Issue Where The Ivory Gleams Fly Without Fate, And Turn Our Hopes To Scorn. But Dreams Which Issue Through The Burnished Horn, What Man Soe'er Beholds Them On His Bed, These Work With Virtue And Of Truth Are Born.

I Am So Smart. I Am So Smart. I Am So Smart. S-m-r-t ... Uh, I Mean S-m-a-r-t.

I Detest The Man Who Hides On Thing In The Depths Of His Heart And Speaks Forth Another.