O World, How Apt The Poor Are

We Must Every One Be A Man Of His Own Fancy.

Age, I Do Abhor Thee, Youth, I Do Adore Thee.

Virtue That Transgresses Is But Patched With Sin; And Sin That Amends Is But Patched With Virtue.

O Mischief, Thou Art Swift To Enter In The Thoughts Of Desperate Men!

A Dream Itself Is But A Shadow.