If The Masses Can Love

I Wonder Men Dare Trust Themselves With Men.

Would It Not Grieve A Woman To Be Over-mastered By A Piece Of Valiant Dust? To Make An Account Of Her Life To A Clod Of Wayward Marle?

Love Is Merely A Madness; And, I Tell You, Deserves As Well A Dark House And A Whip As Madmen Do; And The Reason Why They Are Not So Punish'd And Cured Is That The Lunacy Is So Ordinary That The Whippers Are In Love Too.

Write Till Your Ink Be Dry, And With Your Tears Moist It Again, And Frame Some Feeling Line That May Discover Such Integrity.

A Sad Tale's Best For Winter. I Have One Of Sprites And Goblins.