Like The Measles, Love Is Most Dangerous

A Rose With All Its Sweetest Leaves Yet Folded.

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

Who Then Will Explain The Explanation?

I Am The Very Slave Of Circumstance And Impulse Borne Away With Every Breath! Misplaced Upon The Throne Misplaced In Life. I Know Not What I Could Have Been, But Feel I Am Not What I Should Be Let It End.

It Is True From Early Habit, One Must Make Love Mechanically As One Swims; I Was Once Very Fond Of Both, But Now As I Never Swim Unless I Tumble Into The Water, I Don't Make Love Till Almost Obliged.