This Is The Sphinx Of The Hearthstone,

Sleep Sweetly In The Fields Of Asphodel, And Waken, As Of Old, To Stretch Thy Languid Length, And Purr Thy Soft Contentment To The Skies.

The Least Practical Of Us Have Some Petty Thrift Dear To Our Hearts, Some One Direction In Which We Love To Scrimp.

We Have But The Memories Of Past Good Cheer, We Have But The Echoes Of Departed Laughter. In Vain We Look And Listen For The Mirth That Has Died Away. In Vain We Seek To Question The Gray Ghosts Of Old-time Revelers.

Necessity Knows No Sunday.

The Well-ordered Mind Knows The Value, No Less Than The Charm, Of Reticence. The Fruit Of The Tree Of Knowledge ... Falls Ripe From Its Stem; But Those Who Have Eaten With Sobriety Find No Need To Discuss The Processes Of Digestion.