Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one.
The busy have no time for tears.
For pleasures past I do not grieve, nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave nothing that claims a tear.
That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane
Exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year.
Tyranny is for the worst of treasons.