Even Pain Pricks To Livelier Living.

Without Poetry The Soul And Heart Of Man Starves And Dies.

Not A Softness Anywhere About Me, Only Whalebone And Brocade.

On The Neck Of The Young Man Sparkles No Gem So Gracious As Enterprise. Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones.

The Stigma Of Oddness Is The Price A Myopic World Always Exacts Of Genius.

In My Stiff, Brocaded Gown. With My Powdered Hair And Jeweled Fan, I Too Am A Rare Pattern.