Happiness Was Born A Twin.

Talent May Be In Time Forgiven, But Genius Never

'tis Very Certain The Desire Of Life Prolongs It.

[my Advice] Will One Day Be Found With Other Relics Of 'a Former World,' When This World Shall Be Former, Underground, Thrown Topsy-turvy, Twisted, Crisped, And Curled, Baked, Fried Or Burnt, Turned Inside-out, Or Drowned, Like All The Worlds Before, Which Have Been Hurled First Out Of, And Then Back Again To Chaos, The Superstratum Which Will Overlay Us.

Then Farewell, Horace; Whom I Hated So, Not For Thy Faults, But Mine.

One Hates An Author That's All Author.