One Man Restored Our Fortunes By Delay.

The Idle Mind Knows Not What It Wants.

How Can Life Be Worth Living, If Devoid Of The Calm Trust Reposed By Friend In Friend? What Sweeter Joy Than In The Kindred Soul, Whose Converse Differs Not From Self-communion?

I Never Indulge In Rhyme Or Stanza Unless I'm In Bed With The Influenza.

That Is True Liberty, Which Bears A Pure And Firm Breast.

Let No One Honour Me With Tears, Or Bury Me With Lamentation. Why? Because I Fly Hither And Thither, Living In The Mouths Of Me. [lat., Nemo Me Lacrymis Decoret, Nec Funera Fletu. Faxit Cur? Volito Vivu' Per Ora Virum.]