Is Base In Kind, And Born To

And, Of All Lies (be That One Poet's Boast) / The Lie That Flatters I Abhor The Most.

Visits Are Insatiable Devourers Of Time, And Fit Only For Those Who, If They Did Not That, Would Do Nothing.

I Pity Bashful Men, Who Feel The Pain Of Fancied Scorn And Undeserved Disdain, And Bear The Marks Upon A Blushing Face, Of Needless Shame, And Self-impos'd Disgrace.

I Am Out Of Humanity's Reach.

The Man That Dares Traduce, Because He Can With Safety To Himself, Is Not A Man.