On Wings Of Wind Came Flying All

Dear, Damned, Distracting Town, Farewell! Thy Fools No More I'll Tease: This Year In Peace, Ye Critics, Dwell, Ye Harlots, Sleep At Ease!

Superstition Is The Spleen Of The Soul.

A Youth Of Frolic, An Old Age Of Cards.

Women, As They Are Like Riddles In Being Unintelligible, So Generally Resemble Them In This, That They Please Us No Longer Once We Know Them.

But Blind To Former As To Future Fate, What Mortal Knows His Pre-existent State?