It Was Not The Apple

The Music Soars Within The Little Lark, And The Lark Soars.

May The Good God Pardon All Good Men.

The Critics Could Never Mortify Me Out Of Heart - Because I Love Poetry For Its Own Sake, - And, Tho' With No Stoicism And Some Ambition, Care More For My Poems Than For My Poetic Reputation.

And Is It Not The Chief Good Of Money, The Being Free From The Need Of Thinking Of It?

The Tyrant Should Take Heed To What He Doth, Since Every Victim-carrion Turns To Use, And Drives A Chariot, Like A God Made Wroth, Against Each Piled Injustice.