We Drink [to] One Another's Health And

Cheese, Like Oil, Makes Too Much Of Itself.

That Is Just The Way With Memory; Nothing That She Brings To Us Is Complete. She Is A Willful Child; All Her Toys Are Broken. I Remember Tumbling Into A Huge Dust-hole When A Very Small Boy, But I Have Not The Faintest Recollection Of Ever Getting Out Again; And If Memory Were All We Had To Trust To, I Should Be Compelled To Believe I Was There Still.

Love Is Like The Measles; We All Have To Go Through It.

We Are But The Veriest, Sorriest Slaves Of Our Stomach. Reach Not After Morality And Righteousness, My Friends; Watch Vigilantly Your Stomach, And Diet It With Care And Judgment.

Angels May Be Very Excellent Sort Of Folk In Their Way, But We, Poor Mortals, In Our Present State, Would Probably Find Them Precious Slow Company.