Wit Is The Lowest Form Of Humor.

Nor Fame I Slight, Nor Her Favors Call.

Nor Public Flame, Nor Private, Dares To Shine; Nor Human Spark Is Left, Nor Glimpse Divine! Lo! Thy Dread Empire, Chaos! Is Restored; Light Dies Before Thy Uncreating Word: Thy Hand, Great Anarch! Lets The Curtain Fall; And Universal Darkness Buries All.

No Woman Ever Hates A Man For Being In Love With Her, But Many A Woman Hate A Man For Being A Friend To Her.

Of Manners Gentle, Of Affections Mild; In Wit A Man; Simplicity, A Child.

A Little Learning Is A Dangerous Thing; Drink Deep, Or Taste Not The Pierian Spring.