Hatred Is The Madness Of The Heart.

But What Is Hope? Nothing But The Paint On The Face Of Existence; The Least Touch Of Truth Rubs It Off, And Then We See What A Hollow-cheeked Harlot We Have Got Hold Of.

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

Every Day Confirms My Opinion On The Superiority Of A Vicious Life, And If Virtue Is Not Its Own Reward, I Don't Know Any Other Stipend Annexed To It.

No Ear Can Hear Nor Tongue Can Tell The Tortures Of The Inward Hell!

A Legal Broom's A Moral Chimney-sweeper, And That's The Reason He Himself's So Dirty