The Little Birds Have God For Their

Sing Away Sorrow, Cast Away Care.

The Virtuous Woman Must Be Treated Like A Relic - Adored, But Not Handled; She Should Be Guarded And Prized, Like A Fine Flower-garden, The Beauty And Fragrance Of Which The Owner Allows Others To Enjoy Only At A Distance, And Through Iron Walls.

The Poet May Say Or Sing, Not As Things Were, But As They Ought To Have Been; But The Historian Must Pen Them, Not As They Ought To Have Been, But As They Really Were.

All I Know Is That So Long I Am Asleep I Am Rid Of All Fears And Hopes And Toils And Glory, And Long Live The Man Who Invented Sleep, The Cloak That Covers All Human Thirst.

Do You See Over Yonder, Friend Sancho, Thirty Or Forty Hulking Giants? I Intend To Do Battle With Them And Slay Them.