It really is considered one of the blessings of previous mates which you could manage being silly with them.

Skepticism is slow suicide.

Overhead the sanctities of the stars shine forever-more... pouring satire on the pompous business of the day which they close, and making the generations of men show slight and evanescent.

If the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways, I keep and pass and turn again.

Genius has no taste for weaving sand.

Commit a crime, and the earth is made of glass.

The lover of letters loves power too.