The Bad Poet Is A Toady Mimicking

We Cannot Live, Suffer Or Die For Somebody Else, For Suffering Is Too Precious To Be Shared.

Hardly A Book Of Human Worth, Be It Heaven's Own Secret, Is Honestly Placed Before The Reader; It Is Either Shunned, Given A Periclean Funeral Oration In A Hundred And Fifty Words, Or Interred In The Potter's Field Of The Newspapers Back Pages.

So Much Of Our Lives Is Given Over To The Consideration Of Our Imperfections That There Is No Time To Improve Our Imaginary Virtues. The Truth Is We Only Perfect Our Vices, And Man Is A Worse Creature When He Dies Than He Was When He Was Born.

There Is A Strange And Mighty Race Of People Called The Americans Who Are Rapidly Becoming The Coldest In The World Because Of This Cruel, Man-eating Idol, Lucre.

We Are Ruled By Chance But Never Have Enough Patience To Accept Its Despotism.