How Awful To Reflect That What People

We Should Nourish Our Souls On The Dew Of Poesy, And Manure Them As Well.

Growing Old Is Not A Gradual Decline, But A Series Of Drops, Full Of Sorrow, From One Ledge To Another Below It.

A Slight Touch Of Friendly Malice And Amusement Towards Those We Love Keeps Our Affections For Them From Turning Flat.

We Grow With Years More Fragile In Body, But Morally Stutter, And Can Throw Off The Chill Of A Bad Conscience Almost At Once.

There Is More Felicity On The Far Side Of Baldness Than Young Men Can Possibly Imagine.