A Youth Of Frolic, An Old Age

Cursed Be The Verse, How Well So E'er It Flow, That Tends To Make One Worthy Man My Foe.

On Her White Breast A Sparkling Cross She Wore, Which Jews Might Kiss And Infidels Adore.

Our Judgments, Like Our Watches, None Go Just Alike, Yet Each Believes His Own

Placed On This Isthmus Of A Middle State, A Being Darkly Wise And Rudely Great... He Hangs Between; In Doubt To Act Or Rest; In Doubt To Deem Himself A God, Or Beast; In Doubt His Mind Or Body To Prefer; Born To Die, And Reasoning But To Err.

E'en Sunday Shines No Sabbath Day To Me.