Sorrow Is Knowledge, Those That Know The

It Is True From Early Habit, One Must Make Love Mechanically As One Swims; I Was Once Very Fond Of Both, But Now As I Never Swim Unless I Tumble Into The Water, I Don't Make Love Till Almost Obliged.

But There Are Wanderers O'er Eternity Whose Bark Drives On And On, And Anchor'd Ne'er Shall Be.

My Days Are In The Yellow Leaf; The Flowers And Fruits Of Love Are Gone; The Worm, The Canker, And The Grief, Are Mine Alone!

But As To Women, Who Can Penetrate The Real Sufferings Of Their She Condition? Man's Very Sympathy With Their Estate Has Much Of Selfishness And More Suspicion. Their Love, Their Virtue, Beauty, Education, But Form Good Housekeepers, To Breed A Nation.

Why Do They Call Me Misanthrope? Because They Hate Me, Not I Them.