Imaginary Evils Are Incurable.

Wit Is An Intermittent Fountain; Kindness Is A Perennial Spring.

When Art Find No Temple Open, It Takes Refuge In The Workshop.

I Regret Nothing, Says Arrogance; I Will Regret Nothing, Says Inexperience.

The Incurable Ills Are The Imaginary Ills.

The Mediocre Always Feel As If They're Fighting For Their Lives When Confronted By The Excellent.