The Waste Of Plenty Is The Resource

Man Yields To Death; And Man's Sublimest Works Must Yield At Length To Time.

Clouds On Clouds, In Volumes Driven, Curtain Round The Vault Of Heaven.

My Quarrel With Him Is, That His Works Contain Nothing Worth Quoting; And A Book That Furnishes No Quotations, Is Me Judice, No Book,—it Is A Plaything.

Not Drunk Is He Who From The Floor - Can Rise Alone And Still Drink More; But Drunk Is They, Who Prostrate Lies, Without The Power To Drink Or Rise.

Nothing Can Be More Obvious Than That All Animals Were Created Solely And Exclusively For The Use Of Man.