But Grant The Wrath Of

No Wicked Man Knows Happiness, And Least Of All The Seducer Of Others.

Satire Is What Closes Saturday Night.

The Noiseless Foot Of Tune Steals Swiftly By And Ere We Dream Of Manhood, Age Is Nigh.

It Is A Wretched Thing To Rest Upon The Fame Of Others, Lest, The Supporting Pillar Being Removed, The Superstructure Should Collapse In Ruin.

The Love Of Popularity Holds You In A Vice.