Hatred Is The Madness Of The Heart.

I Do Detest Everything Which Is Not Perfectly Mutual.

The Music, And The Banquet, And The Wine-- The Garlands, The Rose Odors, And The Flowers, The Sparkling Eyes, And Flashing Ornaments-- The White Arms And The Raven Hair--the Braids, And Bracelets; Swan-like Bosoms, And The Necklace, An India In Itself, Yet Dazzling Not.

I Have Had, And May Have Still, A Thousand Friends, As They Are Called, In Life, Who Are Like One's Partners In The Waltz Of This World -not Much Remembered When The Ball Is Over.

Dreading That Climax Of All Human Ills The Inflammation Of His Weekly Bills.

The English Winter - Ending In July To Recommence In August