Shame on the body for breaking down while the spirit perseveres.

For all have not the gift of martyrdom.

Secret guilt is by silence revealed.

For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.

There is a pleasure in being mad, which none but madmen know.

Only man clogs his happiness with care, destroying what is with thoughts of what may be.

Errors like straws upon the surface flow, Who would search for pearls to be grateful for often must dive below.