"Taste is the feminine of genius." — Edward Fitzgerald

Strange, is it not? That of the myriads who Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the Road Which to discover we must travel too.

I am all for the short and merry life.

Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest.

The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.

If you can prove to me that one miracle took place, I will believe he is a just God who damned us all because a woman ate an apple.

I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

And much as Wine has played the Infidel, And robbed me of my Robe of Honor Well, I often wonder what the Vintners buy One half so precious as the stuff they sell.

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Taste is the feminine of genius.