Honour Is A Homicide And A Bloodspiller,

Spangling The Wave With Lights As Vain As Pleasures In The Vale Of Pain, That Dazzle As They Fade.

It Is Only When I Dally With What I Am About, Look Back And Aside, Instead Of Keeping My Eyes Straight Forward, That I Feel These Cold Sinkings Of The Heart.

Breathes There The Man, With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land! Whose Heart Hath Ne'er Within Him Burn'd, As Home His Footsteps He Hath Turn'd From Wandering On A Foreign Strand! If Such There Breathe, Go Mark Him Well; For Him No Minstrel Raptures Swell; High Though His Titles, Proud His Name, Boundless His Wealth As Wish Can Claim; Despite Those Titles, Power, And Pelf, The Wretch, Concentred All In Self, Living, Shall Forfeit Fair Renown, And, Doubly Dying, Shall Go Down To The Vile Dust, From Whence He Sprung, Unwept, Unhonor'd, And Unsung.

Methinks I Will Not Die Quite Happy Without Having Seen Something Of That Rome Of Which I Have Read So Much.

A Glass Of Good Wine Is A Gracious Creature, And Reconciles Poor Mortality To Itself And That Is What Few Things Can Do.