The Waste Of Plenty Is

The Present Is Our Own; But While We Speak, We Cease From Its Possession, And Resign The Stage We Tread On, To Another Race, As Vain, And Gay, And Mortal As Ourselves.

Laughter Is Pleasant, But The Exertion At My Age Is Too Much For Me.

A Book That Furnishes No Quotations, Is Me Judice, No Book, — It Is A Plaything.

Marriage May Often Be A Stormy Lake, But Celibacy Is Almost Always A Muddy Horsepond.

How Troublesome Is Day! It Calls Us From Our Sleep Away; It Bids Us From Our Pleasant Dreams Awake, And Sends Us Forth To Keep Or Break Our Promises To Pay. How Troublesome Is Day!