My words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire. - James Joyce

Read your own obituary notice; they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.

Wait till the honeying of the lune, love! Die eve, little eve, die! We see that wonder in your eye. We'll meet again, we'll part once more. The spot I'll seek if the hour you'll find. My chart shines high where the blue milk's upset.

The pity is the public will demand and find a moral in my book — or worse they may take it in some more serious way, and on the honor of a gentleman, there is not one single serious line in it.