Fame Is A Fickle Food

I Dwell In Possibilities .

Love Is Done When Loves Begun, Sages Say, But Have Sages Known?

This Is My Letter To The World, That Never Wrote To Me, The Simple News That Nature Told, With Tender Majesty. Her Message Is Committed, To Hands I Cannot See; For Love Of Her, Sweet Countrymen, Judge Tenderly Of Me.

When A Lover Is A Beggar Abject Is His Knee. When A Lover Is An Owner Different Is He.

Will You Tell Me My Fault, Frankly As To Yourself, For I Had Rather Wince, Than Die. Men Do Not Call The Surgeon To Commend The Bone, But To Set It, Sir.