Forgot The Blush That Virgin

The Slaves Of Custom And Established Mode, With Pack-horse Constancy We Keep The Road Crooked Or Straight, Through Quags Or Thorny Dells, True To The Jingling Of Our Leader's Bells.

A Man Renowned For Repartee Will Seldom Scruple To Make Free With Friendship's Finest Feeling, Will Thrust A Dagger At Your Breast, And Say He Wounded You In Jest, By Way Of Balm For Healing.

The Cares Of Today Are Seldom Those Of Tomorrow.

O Winter, Ruler Of The Inverted Year!

Where Penury Is Felt The Thought Is Chain'd, And Sweet Colloquial Pleasures Are But Few.