Keep Thy Smooth Words And Juggling Homilies

I Shall Soon Be Six-and-twenty. Is There Anything In The Future That Can Possibly Console Us For Not Being Always Twenty-five?

The Bright Sun Was Extinguish'd, And The Stars Did Wander Darkling In The Eternal Space.

He Who Is Only Just Is Cruel; Who Upon The Earth Would Live Were All Judged Justly?

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.

Send Me No More Reviews Of Any Kind. I Will Read No More Of Evil Or Good In That Line. Walter Scott Has Not Read A Review Of Himself For Thirteen Years .