Though Peace Be Made, Yet It's Interest

I Pity Bashful Men, Who Feel The Pain Of Fancied Scorn And Undeserved Disdain, And Bear The Marks Upon A Blushing Face, Of Needless Shame, And Self-impos'd Disgrace.

Tea - The Cups That Cheer But Not Inebriate.

Remorse, The Fatal Egg By Pleasure Laid, In Every Bosom Where Her Nest Is Made, Hatched By The Beams Of Truth, Denies Him Rest, And Proves A Raging Scorpion In His Breast.

[my Kitten's] Gambols Are Not To Be Described, And Would Be Incredible, If They Could.

Forgot The Blush That Virgin Fears Impart To Modest Cheeks, And Borrowed One From Art.