A Writer Only Begins A Book. A

All Envy Is Proportionate To Desire.

I Hate Mankind, For I Think Myself One Of The Best Of Them, And I Know How Bad I Am.

Confidence Is A Plant Of Slow Growth; Especially In An Aged Bosom

Truth, Sir, Is A Cow Which Will Yield Such People No More Milk, And So They Are Gone To Milk The Bull.

In Bed We Laugh, In Bed We Cry, And Born In Bed, In Bed We Die; The Near Approach A Bed May Show Of Human Bliss To Human Woe.