Laughter Ispleasant, Butthe Exertion Istoomuchfor

My Quarrel With Him Is, That His Works Contain Nothing Worth Quoting; And A Book That Furnishes No Quotations, Is Me Judice, No Book,—it Is A Plaything.

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

The Waste Of Plenty Is The Resource Of Scarcity.

Time, The Foe Of Man's Dominion, Wheels Around In Ceaseless Flight, Scattering From His Hoary Pinion Shades Of Everlasting Night.

Death Comes To All. His Cold And Sapless Hand Waves O'er The World, And Beckons Us Away. Who Shall Resist The Summons?