They Truly Mourn, That Mourn

Nor All That Heralds Rake From Coffin'd Clay, Nor Florid Prose, Nor Honied Lies Of Rhyme, Can Blazon Evil Deeds, Or Consecrate A Crime.

Talent May Be In Time Forgiven, But Genius Never

Out Of Chaos God Made A World, And Out Of High Passions Comes A People.

I Was Accused Of Every Monstrous Vice By Public Rumour And Private Rancour; My Name, Which Had Been A Knightly Or Noble One, Was Tainted. I Felt That, If What Was Whispered, And Muttered, And Murmured, Was True, I Was Unfit For England; If False, England Was Unfit For Me.

'tis Very Certain The Desire Of Life Prolongs It.