And, Dying, Bless The Hand

War Is A Trade Of Kings.

Nothing To Build, And All Things To Destroy.

Thou Tyrant, Tyrant Jealousy, Thou Tyrant Of The Mind!

Farewell, Too Little, And Too Lately Known, Whom I Began To Think And Call My Own.

Railing In Other Men May Be A Crime, But Ought To Pass For Mere Instinct In Him: Instinct He Follows And No Further Knows, For To Write Verse With Him Is To Transprose.