A Drinker Has A Hole Under His

Music Is Nothing Else But Wild Sounds Civilised Into Time And Tune.

We Are Born Crying, Live Complaining, And Die Disappointed.

Govern Thy Life And Thoughts, As If The Whole World Were To See The One, And Read The Other.

Fame Is The Echo Of Actions, Resounding Them To The World, Save That The Echo Repeats Only The Last Art, But Fame Relates All, And Often More Than All.

There Is More Pleasure In Loving Than In Being Beloved.