We Are All The Fools Of Time

But Every Fool Describes, In These Bright Days, His Wondrous Journey To Some Foreign Court, And Spawns His Quarto, And Demands Your Praise,-- Death To His Publisher, To Him 'tis Sport.

I Have No Consistency, Except In Politics; And That Probably Arises From My Indifference To The Subject Altogether.

I Only Know We Loved In Vain; I Only Feel-farewell! Farewell!

Retirement Accords With The Tone Of My Mind; I Will Not Descend To A World I Despise.

Exhausting Thought, And Hiving Wisdom With Each Studious Year.