There's No Jealousy In The Grave.

There Are Gems Of Wondrous Brightness Ofttimes Lying At Our Feet, And We Pass Them, Walking Thoughtless, Down The Busy, Crowded Street. If We Knew, Our Pace Would Slacken, We Would Step More Oft With Care, Lest Our Careless Feet Be Treading To The Earth Some Jewel Rare.

They Copied All They Could Copy, But They Couldn't Copy My Mind; And I Left Them Sweatin' And Stealin', A Year And A Half Behind.

As I Pass Through My Incarnations In Every Age And Race... And The Hearts Of The Meanest Were Humbled.

Literature Is A Splendid Mistress, But A Bad Wife.

There's No Jealousy In The Grave.