Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.
In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.
Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer.
A quiet conscience makes one so serene.
Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.