Everything Runs To Excess; Every

Why Should We Be Cowed By The Name Of Action?.

We Don't Grow Old. When We Cease To Grow, We Become Old.

Neither Is Life Long Enough For Friendship. That Is A Serious And Majestic Affair.

Come, See The North-wind's Masonry, Out Of An Unseen Quarry Evermore Furnished With Tile, The Fierce Artificer Curves His White Bastions With Projected Roof Round Every Windward Stake, Or Tree, Or Door. Speeding, The Myriad-handed, His Wild Work So Fanciful, So Savage, Naught Cares He For Number Or Proportion.

Performing On A Stool, We've Got A Sight To Make You Drool, Seven Virgins And A Mule, Keep It Cool, Keep It Cool.