I Am A Count, Not A Saint.

Ah," Said The Jailer, "do Not Always Brood Over What Is Impossible, Or You Will Be Mad In A Fortnight.

Porthos: He Thinks He Can Challenge The Mighty Porthos With A Sword... D'artagnan: The Mighty Who? Porthos: Don't Tell Me You've Never Heard Of Me. D'artagnan: The World's Biggest Windbag? Porthos: Little Pimple... Meet Me Behind The Luxembourg At 1 O'clock And Bring A Long Wooden Box. D'artagnan: Bring Your Own... Porthos: [laughs]

In Prosperity Prayers Seem But A Mere Medley Of Words, Until Misfortune Comes And The Unhappy Sufferer First Understands The Meaning Of The Sublime Language In Which He Invokes The Pity Of Heaven!

On What Slender Threads Do Life And Fortune Hang.

Nothing Makes Time Pass Or Shortens The Way Like A Thought That Absorbs In Itself All The Faculties Of The One Who Is Thinking. External Existence Is Then Like A Sleep Of Which This Thought Is The Dream. Under Its Influence, Time Has No More Measure, Space Has No More Distance.