Placed on this isthmus of a middle state.

No woman ever hates a man for being in love with her, but many a woman hate a man for being a friend to her.

What bosom beast not in his country's cause?

On cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.

Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.

While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.

Why did I write? What sin to me unknown dipped me in ink, my parents , or my own?