The Wound Of Peace Is Surety, Surety

You Are Not Worth The Dust Which The Rude Wind Blows In Your Face.

You Lack The Season Of All Natures, Sleep.

The Present Eye Praises The Present Object.

Fear And Niceness, The Handmaids Of All Women, Or More Truly, Woman Its Pretty Self.

I Have Bought Golden Opinions From All Sorts Of People.