Fill High The Cup With Samian Wine!

Glory, Like The Phoenix 'midst Her Fires, Exhales Her Odours, Blazes, And Expires.

It Has Been Said That The Immortality Of The Soul Is A Grand Peut-tre -but Still It Is A Grand One. Everybody Clings To It -the Stupidest, And Dullest, And Wickedest Of Human Bipeds Is Still Persuaded That He Is Immortal.

That Music In Itself, Whose Sounds Are Song, The Poetry Of Speech.

But What Is Hope? Nothing But The Paint On The Face Of Existence; The Least Touch Of Truth Rubs It Off, And Then We See What A Hollow-cheeked Harlot We Have Got Hold Of.

History - The Devil's Scripture