Maidens, Like Moths, Are Ever

This Quiet Sail Is As A Noiseless Wing To Waft Me From Distraction.

None Are So Desolate But Something Dear, Dearer Than Self, Possesses Or Possess'd A Thought, And Claims The Homage Of A Tear.

History, With All Her Volumes Vast, Hath But One Page.

And Wrinkles, The Damned Democrats, Won't Flatter.

A Timid Mind Is Apt To Mistake Every Scratch For A Mortal Wound.