To Be Angry Is To

The Cabinets Of The Sick And The Closets Of The Dead Have Been Ransacked To Publish Private Letters And Divulge To All Mankind The Most Secret Sentiments Of Friendship.

But Honest Instinct Comes A Volunteer; Sure Never To O'er-shoot, But Just To Hit, While Still Too Wide Or Short In Human Wit.

Ambition First Sprung From Your Blest Abodes: The Glorious Fault Of Angels And Of Gods.

Then, At The Last And Only Couplet Fraught With Some Unmeaning Thing They Call A Thought, A Needless Alexandrine Ends The Song, That, Like A Wounded Snake, Drags Its Slow Length Along.

Is Not Absence Death To Those Who Love?