He Who Loves His Enemies

Little Fly, Thy Summer's Play My Thoughtless Hand Has Brushed Away. Am Not I A Fly Like Thee? Or Art Not Thou A Man Like Me? For I Dance And Drink And Sing, Till Some Blind Hand Shall Brush My Wing!

Every Harlot Was A Virgin Once.

The Angel That Presided O'er My Birth Said, 'little Creature, Formed Of Joy And Mirth, Go Love Without The Help Of Any Thing On Earth'.

Tools Were Made And Born Were Hands, Every Farmer Understands.

To Generalize Is To Be An Idiot.