Let No One Weep For Me, Or

How Can Life Be Worth Living, If Devoid Of The Calm Trust Reposed By Friend In Friend? What Sweeter Joy Than In The Kindred Soul, Whose Converse Differs Not From Self-communion?

Whom Men Fear They Hate, And Whom They Hate, They Wish Dead.

I Never Indulge In Rhyme Or Stanza Unless I'm In Bed With The Influenza.

A True Friend Is A Friend When In Difficulty

Let No One Honour Me With Tears, Or Bury Me With Lamentation. Why? Because I Fly Hither And Thither, Living In The Mouths Of Me. [lat., Nemo Me Lacrymis Decoret, Nec Funera Fletu. Faxit Cur? Volito Vivu' Per Ora Virum.]