Ease Leads To Habit, As Success To

Wine, Like The Rising Sun, Possession Gains, And Drives The Mist Of Dullness From The Brains, The Gloomy Vapor From The Spirit Flies, And Views Of Gaiety And Gladness Rise.

There Is No Mind So Weak And Powerless As Not To Have Its Inclinations, And None So Guarded As To Be Without Its Prepossessions.

A Club There Is Of Smokers--dare You Come To That Close, Clouded, Hot, Narcotic Room? When, Midnight Past, The Very Candles Seem Dying For Air, And Give A Ghastly Gleam; When Curling Fumes In Lazy Wreaths Arise, And Prosing Topers Rub Their Winking Eyes.

Better To Love Amiss Than Nothing To Have Loved.

The Game Is Never Lost Till Won.