Call It Not Vain: They Do Not

'tis An Old Tale, And Often Told; But Did My Fate And Wish Agree, Ne'er Had Been Read, In Story Old, Of Maiden True Betray'd For Gold, That Loved, Or Was Avenged, Like Me!

Though Varying Wishes, Hopes, And Fears, Fever'd The Progress Of These Years, Yet Now, Days, Weeks, And Months But Seem The Recollection Of A Dream.

If A Faultless Poem Could Be Produced, I Am Satisfied It Would Tire The Critics Themselves; And Annoy The Whole Reading World With The Spleen.

Revenge, The Sweetest Morsel To The Mouth That Ever Was Cooked In Hell.

We Are Like The Herb Which Flourisheth Most When It Is Most Trampled On.