If A Man's Character Is

That Virtue Only Makes Our Bliss Below, And All Our Knowledge Is Ourselves To Know.

Eve Left Adam, To Meet The Devil In Private.

Great Oaks Grow From Little Acorns. He Has A Green Thumb. He Has Green Fingers. He's Sowing His Wild Oats. Here Ceres' Gifts In Waving Prospect Stand, And Nodding Tempt The Joyful Reaper's Hand.

Why Did I Write? Whose Sin To Me Unknown Dipt Me In Ink, My Parents', Or My Own? As Yet A Child, Nor Yet A Fool To Fame, I Lisp'd In Numbers, For The Numbers Came.

Of Fight Or Fly, This Choice Is Left Ye, To Resist Or Die.