A Man Who Permits His Honor To

Telling You The Truth Than Adore Me For Telling You Lies.

Poetry Is A Whim Of Nature In Her Lighter Moods; It Requires Nothing But Its Own Madness And, Lacking That, It Becomes A Soundless Cymbal, A Belfry Without A Bell.

Why Should The Eyes Be Denied What Delights Them Most?

Age Has A Good Mind And Sorry Shanks.

I Love You, And Because I Love You, I Would Sooner Have You Hate Me For Telling You The Truth Than Adore Me For Telling You Lies.