They copied all they could copy, But they couldn't copy my mind; And I left them sweatin' and stealin', A year and a half behind.

Single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints.

Not only do words infect, egotize, narcotize, and paralyze, but they enter into and colour the minutest cells of the brain. . . .

Be slow to judge for we know little of what has been done and nothing of what has been resisted.

The Three in One, the One in Three? Not so! To my own Gods I go. It may be they shall give me greater ease than your cold Christ and tangled Trinities.

War is an ill thing, as I surely know. But 'twould be an ill world for weaponless dreamers if evil men were not now and then slain.

And the end of the fight is tombstone white with the name of the late deceased, and the epitaph drear, "A Fool lies here who tried to hustle the East."