With Thee All Tales Are

That Famish'd People Must Be Slowly Nurst, And Fed By Spoonfuls, Else They Always Burst.

So We'll Go No More A-roving So Late Into The Night, Though The Heart Still Be As Loving, And The Moon Still Be As Bright. For The Sword Outwears Its Sheath, And The Soul Outwears The Breast, And The Heart Must Pause To Breathe, And Love Itself Have Rest. Though The Night Was Made For Loving, And The Day Returns Too Soon, Yet We'll Go No More A-roving By The Light Of The Moon.

For Truth Is Always Strange; Stranger Than Fiction.

I Have No Consistency, Except In Politics; And That Probably Arises From My Indifference To The Subject Altogether.

The Thorns Which I Have Reap'd Are Of The Tree I Planted; They Have Torn Me, And I Bleed. I Should Have Known What Fruit Would Spring From Such A Seed.