I Only Know We Loved In Vain;

Scion Of Chiefs And Monarchs, Where Art Thou? Fond Hope Of Many Nations, Art Thou Dead? Could Not The Grave Forget Thee, And Lay Low Some Less Majestic, Less Beloved Head?

Poetry Should Only Occupy The Idle.

Such Is Your Cold Coquette, Who Can't Say "no," And Won't Say "yes," And Keeps You On And Off-ing On A Lee-shore, Till It Begins To Blow, Then Sees Your Heart Wreck'd, With An Inward Scoffing.

The Cardinal Is At His Wit's End - It Is True That He Had Not Far To Go.

On The Ear Drops The Light Drip Of The Suspended Oar.