Our Souls Must Become Expanded By The

Literary History Is The Great Morgue Where All Seek The Dead Ones Whom They Love, Or To Whom They Are Related.

Money Is The God Of Our Time, And Rothschild Is His Prophet.

I Do Not Know If She Was Virtuous, But She Was Ugly, And With A Woman That Is Half The Battle.

And Once Again We Plighted Our Troth, And Titter'd, Caress'd, Kiss'd So Dearly.

He That Marries Is Like The Dogs Who Was Married To The Adriatic. He Knows Not What There Is In That Which He Marries; Mayhap Treasures And Pearls, Mayhap Monsters And Tempests, Await Him.