Lights Of The World, And Stars Of

Could He With Reason Murmur At His Case, Himself Sole Author Of His Own Disgrace?

Even In The Stifling Bosom Of The Town, A Garden, In Which Nothing Thrives, Has Charms That Soothes The Rich Possessor; Much Consol'd, That Here And There Some Sprigs Of Mournful Mint, Or Nightshade, Or Valerian, Grace The Well He Cultivates.

Glory, Built On Selfish Principles, Is Shame And Guilt.

A Life Of Ease Is A Difficult Pursuit.

They Best Can Judge A Poet's Worth, Who Oft Themselves Have Known The Pangs Of A Poetic Birth By Labours Of Their Own.