The Bad Poet Is A Toady Mimicking

The Ruin Of The Human Heart Is Self-interest, Which The American Merchant Calls Self-service. We Have Become A Self-service Populace, And All Our Specious Comforts -the Automatic Elevator, The Escalator, The Cafeteria -are Depriving Us Of Volition And Moral And Physical Energy.

The Earnings Of A Poet Could Be Reckoned By A Metaphysician Rather Than A Bookkeeper.

Men Are Too Unstable To Be Just; They Are Crabbed Because They Have Not Passed Water At The Usual Time, Or Testy Because They Have Not Been Stroked Or Praised.

The Majority Of Persons Choose Their Wives With As Little Prudence As They Eat. They See A Troll With Nothing Else To Recommend Her But A Pair Of Thighs And Choice Hunkers, And So Smart To Void Their Seed That They Marry Her At Once. They Imagine They Can Live In Marvelous Contentment With Handsome Feet And Ambrosial Buttocks. Most Men Are Accredited Fools Shortly After They Leave The Womb.

So Much Of Our Lives Is Given Over To The Consideration Of Our Imperfections That There Is No Time To Improve Our Imaginary Virtues. The Truth Is We Only Perfect Our Vices, And Man Is A Worse Creature When He Dies Than He Was When He Was Born.