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We Are All Selfish And I No More Trust Myself Than Others With A Good Motive.

-Lord Byron

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We Are All Selfish

Lord Byron

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We Are All Selfish And I No More Trust Myself Than Others With A Good Motive.

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In The Desert A Fountain Is Springing, In The Wide Waste There Still Is A Tree, And A Bird In The Solitude Singing, Which Speaks To My Spirit Of Thee

The Reading Or Non-reading A Book Will Never Keep Down A Single Petticoat.

It Is When We Think We Lead That We Are Most Led.

I Am Surrounded Here By Parsons And Methodists, But As You Will See, Not Infested With The Mania.

Positive Atheism

Hearts Will Break - Yet Brokenly, Live On.

My Turn Of Mind Is So Given To Taking Things In The Absurd Point Of View, That It Breaks Out In Spite Of Me Every Now And Then.

Champagne With Its Foaming Whirls/as White As Cleopatra's Pearls.

I Stood In Venice, On The Bridge Of Sighs; A Palace And A Prison On Each Hand; I Saw From Out The Wave Of Her Structure's Rise As From The Stroke Of The Enchanter's Wand: A Thousand Years Their Cloudy Wings Expand Around Me, And A Dying Glory Smiles O'er The Far Times, When Many A Subject Land Look'd To The Winged Lion's Marble Pines, Where Venice Sate In State, Throned On Her Hundred Isles.

Friendship May, And Often Does, Grow Into Love, But Love Never Subsides Into Friendship.

To What Gulfs A Single Deviation From The Track Of Human Duties Leads Even Those Who Claim The Homage Of Mankind As Their Born Due, And Find It, Till They Forfeit It Themselves!

I Hate All Pain, Given Or Received; We Have Enough Within Us The Meanest Vassal As The Loftiest Monarch, Not To Add To Each Other's Natural Burden Of Mortal Misery.

I Have Not Loved The World, Nor The World Me; I Have Not Flattered Its Rank Breath, Nor Bowed To Its Idolatries A Patient Knee, Nor Coined My Cheek To Smiles,-nor Cried Aloud In Worship Of An Echo.

Parting Day Dies Like The Dolphin, Whom Each Pang Imbues With A New Colour As It Gasps Away, The Last Still Loveliest, Till-'t Is Gone, And All Is Gray.

Age Shakes Athena's Tower, But Spares Gray Marathon.

Divine In Hookas, Glorious In A Pipe When Tipp'd With Amber, Mellow, Rich, And Ripe;... Yet Thy True Lovers More Admire By Far Thy Naked Beauties - Give Me A Cigar!

Think You, If Laura Had Been Petrarch's Wife, He Would Have Written Sonnets All His Life?.

He Was A Man Of His Times. With One Virtue And A Thousand Crimes. (the Corsair)

I Love Not Man The Less, But Nature More.

Sorrow Preys Upon Its Solitude, And Nothing More Diverts It From Its Sad Visions Of The Other World Than Calling It At Moments Back To This. The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

Let No Man Grumble When His Friends Fall Off, As They Will Do Like Leaves At The First Breeze; When Your Affairs Come Round, One Way Or T'other, Go To The Coffee House, And Take Another.

Then Rose From Sea To Sky The Wild Farewell Then Shriek'd The Timid, And Stood Still The Brave, Then Some Leap'd Overboard With Fearful Yell, As Eager To Anticipate Their Grave.

The Poor Dog, In Life The Firmest Friend, The First To Welcome, Foremost To Defend, Whose Honest Heart Is Still The Master's Own, Who Labours, Fights, Lives, Breathes For Him Alone, Unhonour'd Falls, Unnoticed All His Worth, Denied In Heaven The Soul He Held On Earth, While Man, Vain Insect Hopes To Be Forgiven, And Claims Himself A Sole Exclusive Heaven.

Of All Tales 'tis The Saddest--and More Sad, Because It Makes Us Smile.

Tis Strange,-but True; For Truth Is Always Strange; Stranger Than Fiction: If It Could Be Told, How Much Would Novels Gain By The Exchange! How Differently The World Would Men Behold!

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods, There Is Rapture In The Lonely Shore, There Is Society Where None Intrudes, By The Deep Sea, And Music In Its Roar; I Love Not Man The Less, But Nature More.

I See Before Me The Gladiator Lie.

Gone, Glimmering Through The Dream Of Things That Were.

There's Naught, No Doubt, So Much The Spirit Calms As Rum And True Religion.

No Words Suffice The Secret Soul To Show, For Truth Denies All Eloquence To Woe.

Think'st Thou Existence Doth Depend On Time? It Doth; But Actions Are Our Epochs.

There's Music In The Sighing Of A Reed; There's Music In The Gushing Of A Rill; There's Music In All Things, If Men Had Ears; The Earth Is But The Music Of The Spheres.

My Altars Are The Mountains And The Ocean.

I Deny Nothing, But Doubt Everything.

A Little Still She Strove, And Much Repented, And Whispering “i Will Ne'er Consent”—consented.

And Those Who Saw, It Did Surprise, Such Drops Could Fall From Human Eyes.

Tis An Old Lesson; Time Approves It True, And Those Who Know It Best, Deplore It Most; When All Is Won That All Desire To Woo, The Paltry Prize Is Hardly Worth The Cost.

I Learned To Love Despair.

Curiosity Kills Itself; And Love Is Only Curiosity, As Is Proved By Its End.

To Be Perfectly Original One Should Think Much And Read Little, And This Is Impossible, For One Must Have Read Before One Has Learnt To Think.

Hatred Is The Madness Of The Heart.

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.

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar? The Hearts Bleed Longest, And Heals But To Wear That Which Disfigures It.

Wounds And Scars

Tis Pleasing To Be School'd In A Strange Tongue By Female Lips And Eyes--that Is, I Mean, When Both The Teacher And The Taught Are Young, As Was The Case, At Least, Where I Have Been; They Smile So When One's Right; And When One's Wrong They Smile Still More.

War, War Is Still The Cry,-"war Even To The Knife!"

The Devil Was The First Democrat

I Am The Very Slave Of Circumstance And Impulse -- Borne Away With Every Breath!

There Is, In Fact, No Law Or Government At All; And It Is Wonderful How Well Things Go On Without Them.

Sorrow Is Knowledge, Those That Know The Most Must Mourn The Deepest, The Tree Of Knowledge Is Not The Tree Of Life.

Now I Shall Go To Sleep. Goodnight.

I Have Always Believed That All Things Depended Upon Fortune, And Nothing Upon Ourselves.

We Are All Selfish And I No More Trust Myself Than Others With A Good Motive.

A Small Drop Of Ink Makes Thousands, Perhaps Millions... Think.

The Simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, Both By Precept And Example, Shows / That Prose Is Verse, And Verse Is Merely Prose.

Let Not His Mode Of Raising Cash Seem Strange, Although He Fleeced The Flags Of Every Nation, For Into A Prime Minister But Change His Title, And 'tis Nothing But Taxation.

And Hold Up To The Sun My Little Taper.

Fools Are My Theme, Let Satire Be My Song.

It Is Not For Minds Like Ours To Give Or To Receive Flatter; Yet The Praises Of Sincerity Have Ever Been Permitted To The Voice Of Friendship

The Best Prophet Of The Future Is The Past.

Shelley Is Truth Itself And Honour Itself Notwithstanding His Out-of-the-way Notions About Religion.

History - The Devil's Scripture

If From Society We Learn To Live, Solitude Should Teach Us How To Die.

Such Is Your Cold Coquette, Who Can't Say "no," And Won't Say "yes," And Keeps You On And Off-ing On A Lee-shore, Till It Begins To Blow, Then Sees Your Heart Wreck'd, With An Inward Scoffing.

Bread Has Been Made (indifferent) From Potatoes; And Galvanism Has Set Some Corpses Grinning, But Has Not Answer'd Like The Apparatus Of The Humane Society's Beginning, By Which Men Are Unsuffocated Gratis: What Wondrous New Machines Have Late Been Spinning.

The Art Of Angling, The Cruelest, The Coldest And The Stupidest Of Pretended Sports.

Let Us Have Wine And Woman, Mirth And Laughter, Sermons And Soda Water The Day After. Man, Being Reasonable, Must Get Drunk; The Best Of Life Is But Intoxication: Glory, The Grape, Love, Gold, In These Are Sunk The Hopes Of All Men, And Of Every Nation; Without Their Sap, How Branchless Were The Trunk Of Life's Strange Tree, So Fruitful On Occasion: But To Return--get Very Drunk; And When You Wake With Head-ache, You Shall See What Then.

What's Drinking? A Mere Pause From Thinking!

I Stood Among Them, But Not Of Them: In A Shroud Of Thoughts Which Were Not Their Thoughts.

I Am About To Be Married, And Am Of Course In All The Misery Of A Man In Pursuit Of Happiness.

In Commitment, We Dash The Hopes Of A Thousand Potential Selves.

'tis Pleasant, Sure, To See One's Name In Print. A Book's A Book, Although There's Nothing In 't.

We Have Fools In All Sects, And Impostors In Most; Why Should I Believe Mysteries No One Can Understand, Because Written By Men Who Chose To Mistake Madness For Inspiration And Style Themselves Evangelicals?

Maidens, Like Moths, Are Ever Caught, By Glare, And Mammon Wins His Way Where Seraphs Might Despair.

Better To Sink Beneath The Shock Than Moulder Piecemeal On The Rock!

Near This Spot Are Deposited The Remains Of One Who Possessed Beauty Without Vanity, Strength Without Insolence, Courage Without Ferocity, And All The Virtues Of Man, Without His Vices. This Praise, Which Would Be Unmeaning Flattery If Inscribed Over Human Ashes, Is But A Just Tribute To The Memory Of Botswain, A Dog.

There's Not A Sea The Passenger E'er Pukes In, Turns Up More Dangerous Breakers Than The Euxine.

Life Is Too Short For Chess.

Life Is Too Short

Life It Too Short

I Have Always Laid It Down As A Maxim -and Found It Justified By Experience -that A Man And A Woman Make Far Better Friendships Than Can Exist Between Two Of The Same Sex -but Then With The Condition That They Never Have Made Or Are To Make Love To Each Other.

Poetry Should Only Occupy The Idle.

Who Tracks The Steps Of Glory To The Grave?

My Heart In Passion, And My Head On Rhymes.

My Great Comfort Is, That The Temporary Celebrity I Have Wrung From The World Has Been In The Very Teeth Of All Opinions And Prejudices. I Have Flattered No Ruling Powers; I Have Never Concealed A Single Thought That Tempted Me.

I Love The Language, It Sounds As If It Should Be Writ On Satin With Syllables Which Breathe Of The Sweet South

I Know That Two And Two Make Four - And Should Be Glad To Prove It Too If I Could - Though I Must Say If By Any Sort Of Process I Could Convert 2 And 2 Into Five It Would Give Me Much Greater Pleasure.

Dreading That Climax Of All Human Ills The Inflammation Of His Weekly Bills.

It Has Been Said That The Immortality Of The Soul Is A Grand Peut-tre -but Still It Is A Grand One. Everybody Clings To It -the Stupidest, And Dullest, And Wickedest Of Human Bipeds Is Still Persuaded That He Is Immortal.

The Sight Of Blood To Crowds Begets The Thirst Of More, As The First Wine-cup Leads To The Long Revel.

Opinions Are Made To Be Changed Or How Is Truth To Be Got At?

I Loved My Country, And I Hated Him.

As Winds Come Whispering Lightly From The West, Kissing, Not Ruffling, The Blue Deep's Serene.

O Fame! If I Ever Took Delight In Thy Praises, Twas Less For The Sake Of Thy High-sounding Phrases, Than To See The Bright Eyes Of The Dear One Discover The Thought That I Was Not Unworthy To Love Her.

Those Who Will Not Reason, Are Bigots, Those Who Cannot, Are Fools, And Those Who Dare Not, Are Slaves.

There Is No Such Thing As A Life Of Passion Any More Than A Continuous Earthquake, Or An Eternal Fever. Besides, Who Would Ever Shave Themselves In Such A State?

Tyranny Is For The Worst Of Treasons.

Once More Upon The Waters! Yet Once More! And The Waves Bound Beneath Me As A Steed That Knows His Rider.

The World Is A Bundle Of Hay, Mankind Are The Asses That Pull, Each Tugs In A Different Way And The Greatest Of All Is John Bull!

Keep Thy Smooth Words And Juggling Homilies For Those Who Know Thee Not.

Think'st Thou There Is No Tyranny But That Of Blood And Chains? The Despotism Of Vice-- The Weakness And The Wickedness Of Luxury-- The Negligence--the Apathy--the Evils Of Sensual Sloth--produces Ten Thousand Tyrants, Whose Delegated Cruelty Surpasses The Worst Acts Of One Energetic Master, However Harsh And Hard In His Own Bearing.

The Truly Brave Are Soft Of Heart And Eyes, And Feel For What Their Duty Bids Them Do.

I Suppose We Shall Soon Travel By Air-vessels; Make Air Instead Of Sea Voyages; And At Length Find Our Way To The Moon, In Spite Of The Want Of Atmosphere.

Send Me No More Reviews Of Any Kind. I Will Read No More Of Evil Or Good In That Line. Walter Scott Has Not Read A Review Of Himself For Thirteen Years .

A Celebrity Is One Who Is Known To Many Persons He Is Glad He Doesn't Know.

I Have A Notion That Gamblers Are As Happy As Most People - Being Always Excited.

That Music In Itself, Whose Sounds Are Song, The Poetry Of Speech.

Sublime Tobacco! Which From East To West, Cheers The Tar's Labour Or The Turkman's Rest; Which On The Moslem's Ottoman Divides His Hours, And Rivals Opium And His Brides; Magnificent In Stamboul, But Less Grand, Though Not Less Loved, In Wapping Or The Strand: Divine In Hookas, Glorious In A Pipe, When Tipp'd With Amber, Mellow, Rich, And Ripe; Like Other Charmers Wooing The Caress, More Dazzlingly When Daring In Full Dress; Yet Thy True Lovers More Admire By Far Thy Naked Beauties Give Me A Cigar!

Ah, Happy Years! Once More Who Would Not Be A Boy?

Kill A Man's Family, And He May Brook It, But Keep Your Hands Out Of His Breeches' Pocket.

Happiness Was Born A Twin.

Bologna Is Celebrated For Producing Popes, Painters, And Sausage.

Shakespeare's Name, You May Depend On It, Stands Absurdly Too High And Will Go Down.

Most Glorious Night! Thou Wert Not Sent For Slumber!

Lovers May Be And Indeed Generally Are Enemies, But They Never Can Be Friends, Because There Must Always Be A Spice Of Jealousy And A Something Of Self In All Their Speculations.

What Men Call Gallantry, And Gods Adultery, Is Much More Common Where The Climate's Sultry.

Oh, Mirth And Innocence! Oh, Milk And Water! Ye Happy Mixture Of More Happy Days!

Romances I Ne'er Read Like Those I Have Seen.

And Angling Too, That Solitary Vice, What Izaak Walton Sings Or Says: The Quaint, Old, Cruel Coxcomb, In His Gullet Should Have A Hook, And A Small Trout To Pull It.

What Want These Outlaws Conquerors Should Have But History's Purchased Page To Call Them Great?

The Cardinal Is At His Wit's End - It Is True That He Had Not Far To Go.

Talent May Be In Time Forgiven, But Genius Never

I Should Be Very Willing To Redress Men Wrongs, And Rather Check Than Punish Crimes, Had Not Cervantes, In That All Too True Tale Of Quixote, Shown How All Such Efforts Fail.

When People Say, "i've Told You Fifty Times," They Mean To Scold, And Very Often Do; When Poets Say, "i've Written Fifty Rhymes," They Make You Dread That They'll Recite Them Too; In Gangs Of Fifty, Thieves Commit Their Crimes; At Fifty Love For Love Is Rare, 't Is True, But Then, No Doubt, It Equally As True Is, A Good Deal May Be Bought For Fifty Louis.

What Is The End Of Fame? 'tis But To Fill A Certain Portion Of Uncertain Paper: Some Liken It To Climbing Up A Hill, Whose Summit, Like All Hills, Is Lost In Vapour: For This Men Write, Speak, Preach, And Heroes Kill, And Bards Burn What They Call Their "midnight Taper," To Have, When The Original Is Dust, A Name, A Wretched Picture, And Worse Bust.

I Am As Comfortless As A Pilgrim With Peas In His Shoes - And As Cold As Charity, Chastity Or Any Other Virtue.

Egypt! From Whose All Dateless Tombs Arose Forgotten Pharaohs From Their Long Repose, And Shook Within Their Pyramids To Hear A New Cambyses Thundering In Their Ear; While The Dark Shades Of Forty Ages Stood Like Startled Giants By Nile's Famous Flood.

But There Are Wanderers O'er Eternity Whose Bark Drives On And On, And Anchor'd Ne'er Shall Be.

Do Proper Homage To Thine Idol's Eyes; But No Too Humbly, Or She Will Despise Thee And Thy Suit, Though Told In Moving Tropes: Disguise Even Tenderness If Thou Art Wise.

The Drying Up A Single Tear Has More, Of Honest Fame, Than Shedding Seas Of Gore.

Scion Of Chiefs And Monarchs, Where Art Thou? Fond Hope Of Many Nations, Art Thou Dead? Could Not The Grave Forget Thee, And Lay Low Some Less Majestic, Less Beloved Head?

Sighing That Nature Formed But One Such Man, And Broke The Die.

Had Sigh'd To Many, Though He Loved But One.

Whatsoever Thy Birth, Thou Wert A Beautiful Thought, And Softly Bodied Forth.

Though The Day Of My Destiny 's Over, And The Star Of My Fate Hath Declined, Thy Soft Heart Refused To Discover The Faults Which So Many Could Find.

There Are Some Feelings Time Cannot Benumb, Nor Torture Shake.

So For A Good Old-gentlemanly Vice, I Think I Must Take Up With Avarice.

He Who Is Only Just Is Cruel; Who Upon The Earth Would Live Were All Judged Justly?

Absence - That Common Cure Of Love.

I Am Acquainted With No Immaterial Sensuality So Delightful As Good Acting.

A Man Of Eighty Has Outlived Probably Three New Schools Of Painting, Two Of Architecture And Poetry And A Hundred In Dress.

The Niobe Of Nations! There She Stands.

Then Stirs The Feeling Infinite, So Felt In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

Go Let Thy Less Than Woman's Hand Assume The Distaff Not The Brand.

The Place Is Very Well And Quiet And The Children Only Scream In A Low Voice.

Marriage, From Love, Like Vinegar From Wine-- A Sad, Sour Sober Beverage--by Time Is Sharpened From Its High Celestial Flavor Down To A Very Homely Household Savor.

Ancient Of Days! August Athena! Where, Where Are Thy Men Of Might? Thy Grand In Soul? Gone--glimmering Through The Dream Of Things That Were; First In The Race That Led To Glory's Goal, They Won, And Pass'd Away--is This The Whole?

Yes, Love Indeed Is Light From Heaven; A Spark Of That Immortal Fire With Angels Shared, By Allah Given To Lift From Earth Our Low Desire.

In England The Only Homage Which They Pay To Virtue - Is Hypocrisy.

A Thirst For Gold, The Beggar's Vice, Which Can But Overwhelm The Meanest Hearts.

Fill High The Cup With Samian Wine!

Oh Who Can Tell, Save He Whose Heart Hath Tried.

Liberty - Eternal Spirit Of The Chainless Mind

Egeria! Sweet Creation Of Some Heart Which Found No Mortal Resting-place So Fair As Thine Ideal Breast.

Exhausting Thought, And Hiving Wisdom With Each Studious Year.

If We Must Have A Tyrant, Let Him At Least Be A Gentleman Who Has Been Bred To The Business, And Let Us Fall By The Axe And Not By The Butcher's Cleaver.

Tis Sweet To Listen As The Night Winds Creep From Leaf To Leaf.

Her Great Merit Is Finding Out Mine; There Is Nothing So Amiable As Discernment.

Have Not All Past Human Beings Parted, And Must Not All The Present, One Day Part?

Ada! Sole Daughter Of My House And Heart.

Eternity Forbids Thee To Forget.

On The Ear Drops The Light Drip Of The Suspended Oar.

What Is Death, So It Be But Glorious? 'tis A Sunset; And Mortals May Be Happy To Resemble The Gods But In Decay.

She Walks In Beauty, Like The Night Of Cloudless Climes And Starry Skies; And All That's Best Of Dark And Bright Meet In Her Aspect And Her Eyes.

They Never Fail Who Die In A Great Cause.

Sweet Is Revenge-especially To Women.

You Should Have A Softer Pillow Than My Heart.

When We Two Parted In Silence And Tears, Half Broken-hearted, To Sever For Years.

But Stories Somehow Lengthen When Begun.

But 'midst The Crowd, The Hum, The Shock Of Men, To Hear, To See, To Feel, And To Possess, And Roam Along, The World's Tired Denizen, With None Who Bless Us, None Whom We Can Bless.

There Is Something Pagan In Me That I Cannot Shake Off. In Short, I Deny Nothing, But Doubt Everything.

A Drop Of Ink May Make A Million Think.

Romances Paint At Full Length People's Wooing. But Only Give A Bust Of Marriages.

My Boat Is On The Shore, And My Bark Is On The Sea.

Where Are The Forms The Sculptor's Soul Hath Seized? In Him Alone, Can Nature Show As Fair?

But Every Fool Describes, In These Bright Days, His Wondrous Journey To Some Foreign Court, And Spawns His Quarto, And Demands Your Praise,-- Death To His Publisher, To Him 'tis Sport.

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar?

Wounds And Scars

There Is No Traitor Like Him Whose Domestic Treason Plants The Poniard Within The Breast That Trusted To His Truth

But 'why Then Publish?' There Are No Rewards Of Fame Or Profit When The World Grows Weary. I Ask In Turn Why Do You Play At Cards? Why Drink? Why Read? To Make Some Hour Less Dreary. It Occupies Me To Turn Back Regards On What I've Seen Or Pondered, Sad Or Cheery, And What I Write I Cast Upon The Stream To Swim Or Sink. I Have Had At Least My Dream.

A Bargain Is In Its Very Essence A Hostile Transaction Do Not All Men Try To Abate The Price Of All They Buy? I Contend That A Bargain Even Between Brethren Is A Declaration Of War.

Fair Greece! Sad Relic Of Departed Worth! Immortal, Though No More! Though Fallen, Great!

Sweet Is Old Wine In Bottles, Ale In Barrels.

Self Praise Is No Praise At All.

I Shall Soon Be Six-and-twenty. Is There Anything In The Future That Can Possibly Console Us For Not Being Always Twenty-five?

Why I Came Here, I Know Not; Where I Shall Go It Is Useless To Inquire - In The Midst Of Myriads Of The Living And The Dead Worlds, Stars, Systems, Infinity, Why Should I Be Anxious About An Atom?

My Days Are In The Yellow Leaf; The Flowers And Fruits Of Love Are Gone; The Worm, The Canker, And The Grief, Are Mine Alone!

Brisk Confidence Still Best With Woman Copes: Pique Her And Soothe In Turn-soon Passion Crowns Thy Hopes.

But I Had Not Quite Fixed Whether To Make Him [don Juan] End In Hell-or In An Unhappy Marriage,-not Knowing Which Would Be The Severest.

I Depart, Whither I Know Not; But The Hour's Gone By When Albion's Lessening Shores Could Grieve Or Glad Mine Eye.

There Is Something To Me Very Softening In The Presence Of A Woman, Some Strange Influence, Even If One Is Not In Love With Them, Which I Cannot At All Account For, Having No Very High Opinion Of The Sex. But Yet, I Always Feel In Better Humor With Myself And Every Thing Else, If There Is A Woman Within Ken.

What Should I Have Known Or Written Had I Been A Quiet, Mercantile Politician Or A Lord In Waiting? A Man Must Travel, And Turmoil, Or There Is No Existence.

Jealousy Dislikes The World To Know It.

So The Struck Eagle, Stretch'd Upon The Plain, No More Through Rolling Clouds To Soar Again, View'd His Own Feather On The Fatal Dart, And Wing'd The Shaft That Quiver'd In His Heart.

Roll On, Thou Deep And Dark Blue Ocean

[armenian] Is A Rich Language, However, And Would Amply Repay Any One The Trouble Of Learning It.

Alas! How Deeply Painful Is All Payment!

For Truth Is Always Strange; Stranger Than Fiction.

Here Lies Interred In The Eternity Of The Past, From Whence There Is No Resurrection For The Days - Whatever There May Be For The Dust - The Thirty-third Year Of An Ill-spent Life, Which, After A Lingering Disease Of Many Months Sank Into A Lethargy, And Expired, January 22d, 1821, A.d. Leaving A Successor Inconsolable For The Very Loss Which Occasioned Its Existence.

With Flowing Tail And Flying Mane, Wide Nostrils Never Stretched By Pain, Mouth Bloodless To Bit Or Rein, And Feet That Iron Never Shod, And Flanks Unscar'd By Spur Or Rod, A Thousand Horses - The Wild - The Free - Like Waves That Follow O'er The Sea, Came Thickly Thundering On.

Land Of Lost Gods And Godlike Men.

Men Think Highly Of Those Who Rise Rapidly In The World; Whereas Nothing Rises Quicker Than Dust, Straw, And Feathers.

For The Night Shows Stars And Women In A Better Light.

For The Angel Of Death Spread His Wings On The Blast, And Breathed In The Face Of The Foe As He Passed; And The Eyes Of The Sleepers Waxed Deadly And Chill, And Their Hearts But Once Heaved, And For Ever Grew Still!

I've Seen Your Stormy Seas And Stormy Women, And Pity Lovers Rather More Than Seamen.

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