You Do Not Play Then At Whist,

Summer, As My Friend Coleridge Waggishly Writes, Has Set In With Its Usual Severity.

Our Spirits Grow Gray Before Our Hairs.

My Motto Is: Contented With Little, Yet Wishing For More.

How Sickness Enlarges The Dimension Of A Man’s Self To Himself!

A Pun Is Not Bound By The Laws Which Limit Nicer Wit. It Is A Pistol Let Off At The Ear; Not A Feather To Tickle The Intellect.