Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.

An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick

I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not one's self.

And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.

Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.

But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.

Mock mockers after that That would not lift a hand maybe To help good, wise or great To bar that foul storm out, for we Traffic in mockery.