I Ought To Be Thy

It Would Be An Endless Task To Trace The Variety Of Meannesses, Cares, And Sorrows Into Which Women Are Plunged By The Prevailing Opinion That They Were Created Rather To Feel Than Reason.

I, A Miserable Wretch, Haunted By A Curse That Shut Up Every Avenue To Enjoyment.

It Is True, We Shall Be Monsters, Cut Off From All The World; But On That Account We Shall Be More Attached To One Another.

Oh! Grief Is Fantastic; It Weaves A Web On Which To Trace The History Of Its Woe From Every Form And Change Around; It Incorporates Itself With All Living Nature; It Finds Sustenance In Every Object; As Light, It Fills All Things, And, Like Light, It Gives Its Own Colors To All.

I Cherished Hope, It Is True, But It Vanished When My Person Reflected . . .