Still From The Fount Of Joy's Delicious

When Age Chills The Blood, When Our Pleasures Are Past - For Years Fleet Away With The Wings Of The Dove - The Dearest Remembrance Will Still Be The Last, Our Sweetest Memorial The First Kiss Of Love.

The Best Prophet Of The Future Is The Past.

Ah, Happy Years! Once More Who Would Not Be A Boy?

There's Naught, No Doubt, So Much The Spirit Calms As Rum And True Religion.

But What Is Hope? Nothing But The Paint On The Face Of Existence; The Least Touch Of Truth Rubs It Off, And Then We See What A Hollow-cheeked Harlot We Have Got Hold Of.