I Think I Dislike What I Don't

There Is Nothing That Will Kill A Man So Soon As Having Nobody To Find Fault With But Himself.

Let Thy Chief Terror Be Of Thine Own Soul: There, 'mid The Throng Of Hurrying Desires That Trample O'er The Dead To Seize Their Spoil, Lurks Vengeance, Footless, Irresistible As Exhaltations Laden With Slow Death, And O'er The Fairest Troop Of Captured Joys Breathes Pallid Pestilence.

A Maggot Must Be Born I' The Rotten Cheese To Like It.

Anger And Jealousy Can No More Bear To Lose Sight Of Their Objects Than Love.

To An Old Memory Like Mine The Present Days Are But As A Little Water Poured On The Deep.