An Author Is Like A

Some Tears Belong To Us Because We Are Unfortunate; Others, Because We Are Humane; Many, Because We Are Mortal. But Most Are Caused By Our Being Unwise. It Is These Last Only That Of Necessity Produce More.

Fishes Do Not Roar; They Cannot Express Any Sound Of Suffering; And Therefore The Angler Chooses To Think They Do Not Suffer, More Than It Is Convenient For Him To Fancy. Now It Is A Poor Sport That Depends For Its Existence On The Want Of A Voice In The Sufferer, And Of Imagination In The Sportsman.

O Scaly, Slippery, Wet, Swift, Staring Wights, What Is 't Ye Do? What Life Lead? Eh, Dull Goggles? How Do Ye Vary Your Vile Days And Nights? How Pass Your Sundays? Are Ye Still But Joggles In Ceaseless Wash? Still Nought But Gapes And Bites, And Drinks, And Stares, Diversified With Boggles.

Music Is The Medicine Of The Breaking Heart.

Jenny Kissed Me When We Met, Jumping From The Chair She Sat In; Time, You Thief, Who Love To Get Sweets Into Your List, Put That In: Say I'm Weary, Say I'm Sad, Say That Health And Wealth Have Missed Me, Say I'm Growing Old, But Add-- Jenny Kissed Me!