Death, So Called, Is A Thing Which

The Heart Will Break, But Broken Live On.

What A Strange Thing Is Man! And What A Stranger Is Woman.

We Are All The Fools Of Time And Terror: Days Steal On Us And Steal From Us; Yet We Live, Loathing Our Life, And Dreading Still To Die.

One Hates An Author That's All Author.

But Every Fool Describes, In These Bright Days, His Wondrous Journey To Some Foreign Court, And Spawns His Quarto, And Demands Your Praise,-- Death To His Publisher, To Him 'tis Sport.