The Bad Poet Is A Toady Mimicking

Though Man Is The Only Beast That Can Write, He Has Small Reason To Be Proud Of It. When He Utters Something That Is Wise It Is Nothing That The River Horse Does Not Know, And Most Of His Creations Are The Result Of Accident.

Everything Ultimately Fails, For We Die, And That Is Either The Penultimate Failure Or Our Most Enigmatical Achievement.

So Much Of Our Lives Is Given Over To The Consideration Of Our Imperfections That There Is No Time To Improve Our Imaginary Virtues. The Truth Is We Only Perfect Our Vices, And Man Is A Worse Creature When He Dies Than He Was When He Was Born.

Evil, Which Is Our Companion All Our Days, Is Not To Be Treated As A Foe. It Is Wrong To Cocker Vice, But We Grow Narrow And Pithless If We Are Furtive About It, For This Is At Best A Pretense, And The Sage Knows Good And Evil Are Kindred. The Worst Of Men Harm Others, And The Best Injure Themselves.

A Man Who Can Be Entertaining For A Full Day Will Be In His Grave By Night-fall.