Men Are Apt To Offend ('tis True)

A Little Scorn Is Alluring.

Words Are The Weak Support Of Cold Indifference; Love Has No Language To Be Heard.

They Come Together Like The Coroner's Inquest, To Sit Upon The Murdered Reputations Of The Week.

She Likes Herself, Yet Others Hates, For That Which In Herself She Prizes; And While She Laughs At Them, Forgets She Is The Thing That She Despises.

Thus Grief Still Treads Upon The Heels Of Pleasure; Married In Haste, We May Repent At Leisure.