Pleasure Has No Logic; It Never Treads

In My Garden, Care Stops At The Gate And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.

Pride's Chickens Have Bonny Feathers, But They Are An Expensive Brood To Rear. They Eat Up Everything, And Are Always Lean When Brought To Market.

We Twain Have Met Like The Ships Upon The Sea, Who Behold An Hour's Converse, So Short, So Sweet: One Little Hour! And Then, Away They Speed On Lonely Paths, Through Mist, And Cloud, And Foam, To Meet No More.

Not On The Stage Alone, In The World Also, A Man's Real Character Comes Out Best In His Asides.

And In Any Case, To The Old Man, When The World Becomes Trite, The Triteness Arises Not So Much From A Cessation As From A Transference Of Interest. What Is Taken From This World Is Given To The Next. The Glory Is In The East In The Morning, It Is In The West In The Afternoon, And When It Is Dark The Splendour Is Irradiating The Realm Of The Under-world. He Would Only Follow.