Never To Talk To Ones Self Is

That Prose Is A Verse, And Verse Is A Prose; Convincing All, By Demonstrating Plain – Poetic Souls Delight In Prose Insane

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.

Life Is Too Short For Chess.

In Solitude, When We Are Least Alone.

There Is Music In All Things, If Men Had Ears.