The Waste Of Plenty Is The Resource

Sir, I Have Quarrelled With My Wife; And A Man Who Has Quarrelled With His Wife Is Absolved From All Duty To His Country.

But Still My Fancy Wanders Free Through That Which Might Have Been.

The Critic Does His Utmost To Blight Genius In Its Infancy; That Which Rises In Spite Of Him He Will Not See; And Then He Complains Of The Decline Of Literature.

My Quarrel With Him Is, That His Works Contain Nothing Worth Quoting; And A Book That Furnishes No Quotations, Is Me Judice, No Book,—it Is A Plaything.

How Troublesome Is Day! It Calls Us From Our Sleep Away; It Bids Us From Our Pleasant Dreams Awake, And Sends Us Forth To Keep Or Break Our Promises To Pay. How Troublesome Is Day!