Of All The Follies That We Can

A Blossom Full Of Promise Is Life's Joy, That Never Comes To Fruit. Hope, For A Time, Suns The Young Floweret In Its Gladsome Light, And It Looks Flourishing--a Little While-- 't Is Pass'd, We Know Not Whither, But 't Is Gone.

The Fact Is, That Life Is Too Short To Be Occupied By Aught But The Present - Hope And Remembrance Are Equally A Waste Of Time.

We Need To Suffer, That We May Learn To Pity.

Though Fortune's Wheel Is Generally On The Turn, Sometimes When It Gets Into The Mud, It Sticks There.

The Truth Is, We Like To Talk Over Our Disasters, Because They Are Ours; And Others Like To Listen, Because They Are Not Theirs.