Fame Is A Fickle Food Upon A

Will You Tell Me My Fault, Frankly As To Yourself, For I Had Rather Wince, Than Die. Men Do Not Call The Surgeon To Commend The Bone, But To Set It, Sir.

Longing, It May Be, Is The Gift No Other Gift Supplies.

If Fame Belonged To Me, I Could Not Escape Her; If She Did Not, The Longest Day Would Pass Me On The Chase, And The Approbation Of My Dog Would Forsake Me.

Dogs Are Better Than Human Beings Because They Know But Do Not Tell.

To See The Summer Sky Is Poetry, Though Never In A Book It Lie— True Poems Flee—