Death, So Called, Is A Thing Which

By Headless Charles See Heartless Henry Lies.

Nothing So Fretful, So Despicable As A Scribbler, See What I Am, And What A Parcel Of Scoundrels I Have Brought About My Ears, And What Language I Have Been Obliged To Treat Them With To Deal With Them In Their Own Way; - All This Comes Of Authorship.

Bologna Is Celebrated For Producing Popes, Painters, And Sausage.

Oh, Nature's Noblest Gift, My Grey Goose Quill, Slave Of My Thoughts, Obedient To My Will, Torn From The Parent Bird To Form A Pen, That Mighty Instrument Of Little Men.

All Human History Attests That Happiness For Man, - The Hungry Sinner! - Since Eve Ate Apples, Much Depends On Dinner. ~lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto Xiii, Stanza 99