The Mind Of Guilt Is

The Teeming Autumn Big With Rich Increase, Bearing The Wanton Burden Of The Prime Like Widowed Wombs After Their Lords Decease.

Give Me A Bowl Of Wine. I Have Not That Alacrity Of Spirit Nor Cheer Of Mind That I Was Wont To Have.

There's Small Choice In Rotten Apples.

Thou Art The Mars Of Malcontents.

Words, Words, Mere Words, No Matter From The Heart.