Poetry Should Only Occupy The Idle.

Hatred Is The Madness Of The Heart.

The Keenest Pangs The Wretched Find Are Rapture To The Dreary Void, The Leafless Desert Of The Mind, The Waste Of Feelings Unemployed.

Yet He Was Jealous, Though He Did Not Show It, For Jealousy Dislikes The World To Know It.

So Sweet The Blush Of Bashfulness, E'en Pity Scarce Can Wish It Less!

Exhausting Thought, And Hiving Wisdom With Each Studious Year.