I do not believe in any religion, I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another.

And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, In small fine china cups, came in at last. Gold cups of filigree, made to secure the hand from burning, underneath them place. Cloves, cinnamon and saffron, too, were boiled Up with the coffee, which, I think, they spoiled.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.

I learned to love despair.

Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features Are brought up, others by a warlike leader; Some by a place--as tend their years or natures; The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.

It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.

That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane