Folks never understand the folks they hate.

Ah, in this world, where every guiding thread Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, death, The visionary hand of Might-have-been Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim!

And blessed are the horny hands of toil.

They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin.

Better one bite at forty, of truths bitter rind, than the hot wine that gushed from the vintage of twenty.

He mastered whatever was not worth the knowing.

Every person born into this world their work is born with them.