Drooping Along The Ground The Vine Misses

Few Tyrants Go Down To The Infernal Regions By A Natural Death.

Like Warmed-up Cabbage Served At Each Repast, The Repetition Kills The Wretch At Last.

Give Up All Hope Of Peace So Long As Your Mother-in-law Is Alive.

Here We All Live In A State Of Ambitious Poverty.

Satire Is What Closes Saturday Night.