It's Impossible To Ravish Me, I'm So

O Great Corrector Of Enormous Times, Shaker Of O'er-rank States, Thou Grand Decider Of Dusty And Old Titles, That Healest With Blood The Earth When It Is Sick, And Curest The World O' The Pleurisy Of People.

I Find The Medicine Worse Than The Malady.

He Who Goes To Bed, And Goes To Bed Sober, Falls As The Leaves Do, And Dies In October; But He Who Goes To Bed, And Goes To Bed Mellow, Lives As He Ought To Do, And Dies An Honest Fellow.

Our Acts Our Angels Are, For Good Or Ill, Our Fatal Shadows That Walk By Us Still.

Of All The Forms Of Wisdom, Hindsight Is By General Consent The Least Merciful, The Most Unforgiving.