We of the craft are all crazy.

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.

Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din; Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.

That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.