A Man Does Not Fight

My Wit Is More Polished Than Your Mustache. The Truth Which I Speak Strikes More Sparks From Men's Hearts Than Your Spurs Do From The Cobblestones.

I Would Die At The Stake Rather Than Change A Semi-colon!

Where Lurk Sweet Echoes Of The Dear Homevoices, Each Note Of Which Calls Like A Little Sister, Those Airs Slow, Slow Ascending, As The Smokewreaths Rise From The Hearthstones Of Our Native Hamlets Cyrano Act 5.

Stay Awhile! 'tis Sweet,. . . The Rare Occasion, When Our Hearts Can Speak Our Selves Unseen, Unseeing!

My Soul, Be Satisfied With Flowers, With Fruit, With Weeds Even; But Gather Them In The One Garden You May Call Your Own.