I Am The Self-consumer Of My Woes.

Still, I Have Been No One's Enemy But My Own. My Easy Nature, Either In Drinking Or Anything Else, Was Always Ready To Submit To Persuasions Of Profligate Companions, Who Often Led Me Into Snares.

Old April Wanes, And Her Last Dewy Morn Her Death-bed Steeps In Tears; To Hail The May New Blooming Blossoms Neath The Sun Are Born, And All Poor April's Charms Are Swept Away.

Language Has Not The Power To Speak What Love Indites: The Soul Lies Buried In The Ink That Writes.

Yet Simple Souls, Their Faith It Knows No Stint: Things Least To Be Believed Are Most Preferred. All Counterfeits, As From Truth's Sacred Mint, Are Readily Believed If Once Put Down In Print

Loud Is The Summer's Busy Song The Smallest Breeze Can Find A Tongue, While Insects Of Each Tiny Size Grow Teasing With Their Melodies, Till Noon Burns With Its Blistering Breath Around, And Day Lies Still As Death.