I Do Not Much Wish Well To

Terrestrial Happiness Is Of Short Duration. The Brightness Of The Flame Is Wasting Its Fuel; The Fragrant Flower Is Passing Away In Its Own Odors.

He Who Aspires To Be A Serious Wine Drinker Must Drink Claret.

Friendship May Well Deserve The Sacrifice Of Pleasure, Though Not Of Conscience.

Fate Wings, With Every Wish, The Afflictive Dart, Each Gift Of Nature, And Each Grace Of Art.

Language Is The Dress Of Thought.