He Makes A Solitude, And Calls It

All Tragedies Are Finished By A Death, All Comedies Are Ended By A Marriage.

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!

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

But Words Are Things, And A Small Drop Of Ink, Falling Like Dew, Upon A Thought, Produces That Which Makes Thousands, Perhaps Millions, Think.

This Sort Of Adoration Of The Real Is But A Heightening Of The Beau Ideal.