The Time Is Ripe, And Rotten-ripe, For

Piety Is Indifferent Whether She Enters At The Eye Or At The Ear. There Is None Of The Senses At Which She Does Not Knock One Day Or Other. The Puritans Forgot This, And Thrust Beauty Out Of The Meeting-house And Slammed The Door In Her Face.

Better One Bite At Forty, Of Truths Bitter Rind, Than The Hot Wine That Gushed From The Vintage Of Twenty.

It Is The Privilege Of Genius That Life Never Grows Common Place, As It Does For The Rest Of Us.

A Marciful Providunce Fashioned Us Holler O' Purpose Thet We Might Our Principles Swaller.

To Genius Life Never Grows Commonplace.