Hatred Is The Madness Of The Heart.

A Schoolboy's Tale, The Wonder Of An Hour!

Who Falls From All He Knows Of Bliss, Cares Little Into What Abyss.

My Slumbers--if I Slumber--are Not Sleep, But A Continuance Of Enduring Thought, Which Then I Can Resist Not: In My Heart There Is A Vigil, And These Eyes But Close To Look Within; And Yet I Live, And Bear The Aspect And The Form Of Breathing Men.

So For A Good Old-gentlemanly Vice, I Think I Must Take Up With Avarice.

Dead Scandals Form Good Subjects For Dissection.