I Nauseate Walking; 'tis A Country Diversion,

Turn Pimp, Flatterer, Quack, Lawyer, Parson, Be Chaplain To An Atheist, Or Stallion To An Old Woman, Anything But A Poet; For A Poet Is Worse, More Servile, Timorous And Fawning Than Any I Have Named.

There Are Times When Sense May Be Unseasonable, As Well As Truth.

Thus In This Sad, But Oh, Too Pleasing State! My Soul Can Fix Upon Nothing But Thee; Thee It Contemplates, Admires, Adores, Nay Depends On, Trusts On You Alone.

Whoever Is King, Is Also The Father Of His Country.

O, She Is The Antidote To Desire.