The Red-letter Days, Now Become, To All

I Am In Love With The Green Earth.

Since All The Maids Are Good And Lovable, From Whence Come The Bad Wives?

Presents, I Often Say, Endear Absents.

To Be Sick Is To Enjoy Monarchical Prerogatives.

I Conceive Disgust At Those Impertinent And Misbecoming Familiarities, Inscribed Upon Your Ordinary Tombstones. Every Dead Man Must Take Upon Himself To Be Lecturing Me With His Odious Truism, That "such As He Now Is, I Must Shortly Be." Not So Shortly, Friend, Perhaps, As Thou Imaginest. In The Meantime I Am Alive. I Move About. I Am Worth Twenty Of Thee. Know Thy Betters!