Each Man Has His Own Desires; All

The Stomach Is The Teacher Of The Arts And The Dispenser Of Invention.

Please Not Thyself The Flattering Crowd To Hear; 'tis Fulsome Stuff, To Please Thy Itching Ear. Survey Thy Soul, Not What Thou Does Appear, But What Thou Art.

But When To-morrow Comes, Yesterday's Morrow Will Have Been Already Spent: And Lo! A Fresh Morrow Will Be For Ever Making Away With Our Years, Each Just Beyond Our Grasp.

And Don't Consult Anyone's Opinions But Your Own.

Is Then Thy Knowledge Of No Value, Unless Another Know That Thou Possessest That Knowledge?