The Lust Of The Goat Is The

The Spirits Of The Air Live On The Smells Of Fruit; And Joy, With Pinions Light, Roves Round The Gardens, Or Sits Singing In The Trees.

Acts Themselves Alone Are History, And These Are Neither The Exclusive Property Of Hume, Gibbon Nor Voltaire, Echard, Rapin, Plutarch, Nor Herodotus. Tell Me The Acts, O Historian, And Leave Me To Reason Upon Them As I Please; Away With Your Reasoning And Your Rubbish. All That Is Not Action Is Not Worth Reading.

Oh! Why Was I Born With A Different Face? Why Was I Not Born Like The Rest Of My Race? When I Look,each One Starts! When I Speak, I Offend; Then Im Silent & Passive & Lose Every Friend. Then My Verse I Dishonour, My Pictures Despise, My Person Degrade & My Temper Chastise; And The Pen Is My Terror, The Pencil My Shame; All My Talents I Bury, And Dead Is My Fame. Im Either Too Low Or Too Highly Prized; When Elate I M Envy'd, When Meek Im Despis'd

If You Cannot Imagine With The Mind's Eye Much More Than You Can See With The Mortal Eye, You Have A Very Poor Imagination Indeed.

I Must Create A System, Or Be Enslav'd By Another Man's.