Love All, Trust A Few,

O, A Kiss Long As My Exile, Sweet As My Revenge! Now, By The Jealous Queen Of Heaven, That Kiss I Carried From Thee, Dear, And My True Lip Hath Virgined It E'er Since.

Tis Time To Fear When Tyrants Seem To Kiss.

To Move Wild Laughter In The Throat Of Death? It Cannot Be; It Is Impossible: Mirth Cannot Move A Soul In Agony.

The Blood Of Youth Burns Not With Such Excess As Gravity's Revolt To Wantonness.

Light Vanity, Insatiate Cormorant, Consuming Means, Soon Preys Upon Itself.