I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse -- borne away with every breath!
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
Prolonged endurance tames the bold.
Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.
It is very iniquitous to make me pay my debts - you have no idea of the pain it gives one.
Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.