Egotists Cannot Converse, They Talk

Pleasure, That Immortal Essence, The Beauteous Bead Sparkling In The Cup, Effervesces Soon And Subsides.

One Must Be Rich In Thought And Character To Owe Nothing To Books.

A Good Style Fits Like A Good Costume.

There Is Virtue In Country Houses, In Gardens And Orchards, In Fields, Streams And Groves, In Rustic Recreations And Plain Manners, That Neither Cities Nor Universities Enjoy.

The Fable Runs That The Gods Mix Our Pains And Pleasure In One Cup, And Thus Mingle For Us The Adulterate Immortality Which We Alone Are Permitted Here To Enjoy. Voluptuous Raptures, Could We Prolong These At Pleasure, Would Dissipate And Dissolve Us. A Sip Is The Most That Mortals Are Permitted From Any Goblet Of Delight.