There's No Love Lost Between Us.

To Think That The Affairs Of This Life Always Remain In The Same State Is A Vain Presumption; Indeed They All Seem To Be Perpetually Changing And Moving In A Circular Course. Spring Is Followed By Summer, Summer By Autumn, And Autumn By Winter, Which Is Again Followed By Spring, And So Time Continues Its Everlasting Round. But The Life Of Man Is Ever Racing To Its End, Swifter Than Time Itself, Without Hope Of Renewal, Unless In The Next That Is Limitless And Infinite.

To Be Good To The Vile Is To Throw Water Into The Sea.

Dine On Little, And Sup On Less.

The Pen Is The Tongue Of The Mind.

Poesy Is A Beauteous Damsel, Chaste, Honourable, Discreet, Witty, Retired, And Who Keeps Herself Within The Limits Of Propriety. She Is A Friend Of Solitude; Fountains Entertain Her, Meadows Console Her, Woods Free Her From Ennui, Flowers Delight Her; In Short, She Gives Pleasure And Instruction To All With Whom She Communicates.