Heaven Gives Its Favourites-early Death.

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.

For Through The South The Custom Still Commands The Gentleman To Kiss The Lady's Hands.

I Am The Very Slave Of Circumstance And Impulse Borne Away With Every Breath! Misplaced Upon The Throne Misplaced In Life. I Know Not What I Could Have Been, But Feel I Am Not What I Should Be Let It End.

Heaven Gives Its Favourites-early Death.

And Wrinkles, The Damned Democrats, Won't Flatter.