One Must Be Poor To

Death Is The King Of This World: 'tis His Park Where He Breeds Life To Feed Him. Cries Of Pain Are Music For His Banquet.

Well, Well, My Boy, If Good Luck Knocks At Your Door, Don't You Put Your Head Out At Window And Tell It To Be Gone About Its Business, That's All.

There Is A Sort Of Human Paste That When It Comes Near The Fire Of Enthusiasm Is Only Baked Into Harder Shape.

Veracity Is A Plant Of Paradise, And The Seeds Have Never Flourished Beyond The Walls.

I Have A Knack Of Hoping, Which Is As Good As An Estate.