Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.

Oh that it were possible, After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true love, Around me once again

Arise, go forth, and conquer as of old.

All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.

I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.