He Who Is Only Just Is Cruel;

Good But Rarely Came From Good Advice.

'tis Pleasant, Sure, To See One's Name In Print. A Book's A Book, Although There's Nothing In 't.

There's Not A Sea The Passenger E'er Pukes In, Turns Up More Dangerous Breakers Than The Euxine.

Oh! Might I Kiss Those Eyes Of Fire, A Million Scarce Would Quench Desire; Still Would I Steep My Lips In Bliss, And Dwell An Age On Every Kiss; Nor Then My Soul Should Sated Be, Still Would I Kiss And Cling To Thee: Nought Should My Kiss From Thine Dissever, Still Would We Kiss And Kiss For Ever; E'en Though The Numbers Did Exceed The Yellow Harvest's Countless Seed; To Part Would Be A Vain Endeavour: Could I Desist? -ah! Never-never.

Thy Decay's Still Impregnate With Divinity.