Self praise is no praise at all.
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice.
But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music... Speak to me!