O Poverty, Thy Thousand Ills Combined Sink

Like Warmed-up Cabbage Served At Each Repast, The Repetition Kills The Wretch At Last.

No Wicked Man Knows Happiness, And Least Of All The Seducer Of Others.

He Will Be The Last To Discover The Disgrace Of His House.

The Short Bloom Of Our Brief And Narrow Life Flies Fast Away. While We Are Calling For Flowers And Wine And Women, Old Age Is Upon Us.

When Great Assurance Accompanies A Bad Undertaking, Such Is Often Mistaken For Confiding Sincerity By The World At Large.