Time Is But The Shadow

Seek Out Some Retired And Old-world Spot, Far From The Madding Crowd, And Dream Away A Sunny Week Among Its Drowsy Lanes - Some Half-forgotten Nook, Hidden Away By The Fairies, Out Of Reach Of The Noisy World - Some Quaint-perched Eyrie On The Cliffs Of Time, From Whence The Surging Waves Of The Nineteenth Century Would Sound Far-off And Faint.

We Are But The Veriest, Sorriest Slaves Of Our Stomach. Reach Not After Morality And Righteousness, My Friends; Watch Vigilantly Your Stomach, And Diet It With Care And Judgment.

The Advantage Of Literature Over Life Is That Its Characters Are Clearly Defined, And Act Consistently.

It Is No More Effort For A Man To Be A Saint Than To Be A Sinner; It Becomes A Mere Matter Of Habit.

Splendid Cheeses They Were, Ripe And Mellow, And With A Two Hundred Horse-power Scent About Them That Might Have Been Warranted To Carry Three Miles, And Knock A Man Over At Two Hundred Yards.