Let Us Live For The Beauty Of

Damn The Age. I'll Write For Antiquity.

A Garden Was The Primitive Prison, Till Man With Promethean Felicity And Boldness, Luckily Sinned Himself Out Of It.

The Beggar Wears All Colors Fearing None.

Friend Of My Bosom, Thou More Than A Brother, Why Wert Thou Not Born In My Father's Dwelling?

He Has Left Off Reading Altogether, To The Great Improvement Of His Originality.