'Who drinks one bowl hath scant delight; to poorest passion he was born; 'Who drains the score must e'er expect to rue the headache of the morn.' Safely he jogs along the way which 'Golden Mean' the sages call; Who scales the brow of frowning Alp must face full many a slip and fall.

Hard to the heart is final death: fain would an Ens not end in Nil; Love made the senti'ment kindly good: the Priest perverted all to ill. While Reason sternly…

When doctors differ who decides amid the milliard-headed throng? Who save the madman dares to cry: ''Tis I am right, you all are wrong'? 'You all are right, yo…

There is no Heav'en, there is no Hell; these be the dreams of baby minds, Tools of the wily Fetisheer, to 'fright the fools his cunning blinds. Learn from the …