Whatever Is, Is In Its

Having Mourned Your Sin, For Outward Eden Lost, Find Paradise Within.

One Cannot Say He Wanted Wit, But Rather That He Was Frugal Of It.

Fattened In Vice, So Callous And So Gross, He Sins And Sees Not, Senseless Of His Loss.

Fiction Is Of The Essence Of Poetry As Well As Of Painting; There Is A Resemblance In One Of Human Bodies, Things, And Actions Which Are Not Real, And In The Other Of A True Story By Fiction.

For Every Inch That Is Not Fool, Is Rogue.