And the best and the worst of this is That neither is most to blame, If you have forgotten my kisses And I have forgotten your name.

The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.

Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; And to give thanks is good, and to forgive.

To wipe off the froth of falsehood from the foaming lips of inebriated virtue, when fresh from the sexless orgies of morality and reeling from the delirious riot of religion, may doubtless be a charitable office.

Hope knows not if fear speaks truth, nor fear whether hope be blind as she.

Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which.

The beast faith lives on its own dung.