There Is No Sin So Great As

When Man Has Come To The Turnstiles Of Night, All The Creeds In The World Seem To Him Wonderfully Alike And Colorless.

Literature Is A Splendid Mistress, But A Bad Wife.

On The Road To Mandalay, Where The Flyin'-fishes Play, An' The Dawn Comes Up Like Thunder Outer; China 'crost The Bay!

Each Dog Barks In His Own Yard!

We Have Done With Hope And Honour. We Are Lost To Love And Truth, We Are Dropping Down The Ladder Rung By Rung; And The Measure Of Our Torment Is The Measure Of Our Youth. God Help Us, For We Knew The Worst Too Young!