To wipe off the froth of falsehood from the foaming lips of inebriated virtue, when fresh from the sexless orgies of morality and reeling from the delirious riot of religion, may doubtless be a charitable office.

There was a poor poet named Clough, Whom his friends all united to puff, But the public, though dull, Had not such a skull As belonged to believers in Clough.

Love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire Dividing my delight and my desire.

Though one were fair as roses His beauty clouds and closes.

The beast faith lives on its own dung.

Hope thou not much, and fear thou not at all.

There grows No herb of help to heal a coward heart.