I Am As Comfortless As A Pilgrim

Damn Description, It Is Always Disgusting.

Jealousy Dislikes The World To Know It.

As To Don Juan, Confess That It Is The Sublime Of That There Sort Of Writing; It May Be Bawdy, But Is It Not Good English? It May Be Profligate, But Is It Not Life, Is It Not The Thing? Could Any Man Have Written It Who Has Not Lived In The World? And Tooled In A Post-chaise? In A Hackney Coach? In A Gondola? Against A Wall? In A Court Carriage? In A Vis A Vis? On A Table? And Under It?

Nor All That Heralds Rake From Coffin'd Clay, Nor Florid Prose, Nor Honied Lies Of Rhyme, Can Blazon Evil Deeds, Or Consecrate A Crime.

But What Is Hope? Nothing But The Paint On The Face Of Existence; The Least Touch Of Truth Rubs It Off, And Then We See What A Hollow-cheeked Harlot We Have Got Hold Of.