A Man Who Permits His Honor To

Telling You The Truth Than Adore Me For Telling You Lies.

Even When I'm Railed At, I Get My Quota Of Renown.

Poetry Is A Whim Of Nature In Her Lighter Moods; It Requires Nothing But Its Own Madness And, Lacking That, It Becomes A Soundless Cymbal, A Belfry Without A Bell.

The Art Of War Is Like The Art Of The Courtesan; Indeed They Might Be Called Sisters, Since Both Are Slaves Of Desperation.

There Is No Food More Satiating Than Milk And Honey; And Just As Such Foods Produce Disgust For The Palate, So Perfumed And Gallant Words Make Our Ears Belch.