The Time Is Ripe, And Rotten-ripe, For

For Only By Unlearning Wisdom Comes.

My Soul Is Not A Palace Of The Past.

I Tell Ye Wut, My Judgment Is You're Pooty Sure To Fail, Ez Long 'z The Head Keeps Turnin' Back For Counsel To The The Tail.

The Wisest Man Could Ask No More Of Fate Than To Be Simple, Modest, Manly, True, Safe From The Many, Honored By The Few; Nothing To Court In Church, Or World, Or State, But Inwardly In Secret To Be Great.

That Pernicious Sentiment, "our Country, Right Or Wrong."