Hatred Is The Madness Of The Heart.

Where Are The Forms The Sculptor's Soul Hath Seized? In Him Alone, Can Nature Show As Fair?

Yet I Did Love Thee To The Last, As Ferverently As Thou, Who Didst Not Change Through All The Past, And Canst Not Alter Now.

A Legal Broom's A Moral Chimney-sweeper, And That's The Reason He Himself's So Dirty

Then Farewell, Horace; Whom I Hated So, Not For Thy Faults, But Mine.

I Am About To Be Married, And Am Of Course In All The Misery Of A Man In Pursuit Of Happiness.