He Who Closes His Ears To The

Uncertainty And Expectation Are The Joys Of Life. Security Is An Insipid Thing.

Thou Art A Retailer Of Phrases, And Dost Deal In Remnants Of Remnants.

Come, Come, Leave Business To Idlers, And Wisdom To Fools: They Have Need Of 'em: Wit Be My Faculty, And Pleasure My Occupation, And Let Father Time Shake His Glass.

O Ay, Letters - I Had Letters - I Am Persecuted With Letters - I Hate Letters - Nobody Knows How To Write Letters; And Yet One Has 'em, One Does Not Know Why - They Serve One To Pin Up One's Hair.

A Wit Should No More Be Sincere, Than A Woman Constant; One Argues A Decay Of Parts, As To Other Of Beauty.