Money's A Horrid Thing To Follow, But

Oxford Lends Sweetness To Labour And Dignity To Leisure.

A Swift Carriage, Of A Dark Night, Rattling With Four Horses Over Roads That One Can’t See--that’s My Idea Of Happiness.

Art Is Nothing More Than The Shadow Of Humanity.

An Englishman's Never So Natural As When He's Holding His Tongue.

London Doesn't Love The Latent Or The Lurking, Has Neither Time, Nor Taste, Nor Sense For Anything Less Discernible Than The Red Flag In Front Of The Steam-roller. It Wants Cash Over The Counter And Letters Ten Feet High.