I Don't Believe In Princerple, But Oh

A Stray Hair, By Its Continued Irritation, May Give More Annoyance Than A Smart Blow.

How Little Inventiveness There Is In Man, Grave Copier Of Copies.

Who's Not Sat Tense Before His Own Heart's Curtain.

What Men Call Luck Is The Prerogative Of Valiant Souls, The Fealty Life Pays Its Rightful Kings.

Praise Follows Truth Afar Off, And Only Overtakes Her At The Grave; Plausibility Clings To Her Skirts And Holds Her Back Till Then