We Sacrifice To Dress Till

How Shall I Speak Thee, Or Thy Power Address Thou God Of Our Idolatry, The Press. . . . . Like Eden's Dead Probationary Tree, Knowledge Of Good And Evil Is From Thee.

Ever Let The Fancy Roam, Pleasure Never Is At Home.

Some People Are More Nice Than Wise.

How Readily We Wish Time Spent Revoked, That We Might Try The Ground Again Where Once--through Inexperience, As We Now Perceive--we Missed That Happiness We Might Have Found!

His Wit Invites You By His Looks To Come, But When You Knock, It Never Is At Home.