And Wrinkles, The Damned Democrats, Won't Flatter.

The Dew Of Compassion Is A Tear.

Think Not I Am What I Appear.

Oh, Talk Not To Me Of A Name Great In Story; The Days Of Our Youth Are The Days Of Our Glory; And The Myrtle And Ivy Of Sweet Two-and-twenty Are Worth All Your Laurels, Though Ever So Plenty.

I Love Not Man The Less, But Nature More.

If I Am Fool, It Is, At Least, A Doubting One; And I Envy No One The Certainty Of His Self-approved Wisdom.