'tis Better To Be Vile Than Vile

Let The Galled Jade Wince; Our Withers Are Unwrung.

Every Man Has His Fault, And Honesty Is His.

And Then He Drew A Dial From His Poke, And Looking With Lack-lustre Eye, Says Very Wisely, 'it Is Ten O'clock: Thus We May See', Quoth He, 'how The World Wags: 'tis But An Hour Ago Since It Was Nine, And After One Hour More 'twill Be Eleven; And So From Hour To Hour We Ripe And Ripe, And Then From Hour To Hour We Rot And Rot.

My Desolation Does Begin To Make A Better Life.

The Will Is Infinite And The Execution Confin'd, The Desire Is Boundless And The Act A Slave To Limit.