They Address An Eclipse Every

Fame Is A Fickle Food Upon A Shifting Plate, Whose Table Once A Guest, But Not The Second Time, Is Set. Whose Crumbs The Crows Inspect, And With Ironic Caw Flap Past It To The Farmer's Corn; Men Eat Of It And Die.

Drunkards Of Summer Are Quite As Frequent As Drunkards Of Wine.

Had We Less To Say To Those We Love, Perhaps We Should Say It Oftener.

Home Is The Definition Of God.

My Friends Are My Estate. Forgive Me Then The Avarice To Hoard Them!