I Love Not Man The Less, But

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

He Who Surpasses Or Subdues Mankind, Must Look Down On The Hate Of Those Below.

Like The Measles, Love Is Most Dangerous When It Comes Late In Life.

This Man Is Freed From Servile Bands, Of Hope To Rise, Or Fear To Fall; Lord Of Himself, Though Not Of Lands, And Leaving Nothing, Yet Hath All.

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.