I Hate The Man Who

Ay, Down To The Dust With Them, Slaves As They Are! From This Hour Let The Blood In Their Dastardly Veins, That Shrunk At The First Touch Of Liberty's War, Be Wasted For Tyrants, Or Stagnate In Chains.

Separate From The Pleasure Of Your Company, I Don't Much Care If I Never See Another Mountain In My Life.

My Only Books Were Woman's Looks,- And Folly 's All They 've Taught Me.

Satire Does Not Look Pretty Upon A Tombstone.

How Convalescence Shrinks A Man Back To His Pristine Stature! Where Is Now The Space, Which He Occupied So Lately, In His Own, In The Family's Eye?