Oh, For A Forty-parson Power To Chant

I Have A Great Mind To Believe In Christianity For The Mere Pleasure Of Fancying I May Be Damned.

I Cannot Conceive Why People Will Always Mix Up My Own Character And Opinions With Those Of The Imaginary Beings Which, As A Poet, I Have The Right And Liberty To Draw.

Retirement Accords With The Tone Of My Mind; I Will Not Descend To A World I Despise.

To Chase The Glowing Hours With Flying Feet.

He Scratched His Ear, The Infallible Resource To Which Embarrassed People Have Recourse.