Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil.
But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.
The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one.
To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.
And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.