As ye of clay were cast by kind, So shall ye waste to dust.

My lusts they do me leave, My fancies all be fled, And tract of time begins to weave Grey hairs upon my head.

For age with stealing steps Hath clawed me with his crutch

The wrinkles in my brow, The furrows in my face, Say, limping age will lodge him now Where youth must give him place.

My hand and pen are not in plight, As they have been of yore.

I loathe that I did love, In youth that I thought sweet

Resentment is the act of stabbing yourself repeatedly in the heart with a knife, hoping the other person dies.

Life is like playing a violin solo in public and learning the instrument as one goes on.

Sometimes in politics, you think you've seen it all. Turns out I was wrong.

It drops down to a place I ain't going.

I have the mind of a fool, understanding nothing.

Political differences essentially depend on disagreement in moral principles.

I hate politics. It's slimy. Any job where people pander for votes I don't like. The country has gotten so partisan that if you're not on my side, you're the enemy.

I didn't even think about suggesting he take the boots off. There'd probably be a apocalypse or something.

Ten years ago, if you asked me where I'd be now, I'd have said F-ing dead. But I'm not dead. I have an awesome life. And I'm just very grateful. That's the one thing I try to convey. Gratitude.

I had rather be a toad, and live upon the vapor of a dungeon than keep a corner in the thing I love for others uses.