There Is No Greater Hell Than To

Confound These Ancestors... They've Stolen Our Best Ideas!

Were Guilt Is, Rage And Courage Doth Abound.

True Gladness Doth Not Always Speak; Joy, Bred And Born But In The Tongue, Is Weak.

The Voice So Sweet, The Words So Fair, As Some Soft Chime Had Stroked The Air; And Though The Sound Had Parted Thence, Still Left An Echo In The Sense.

All Discourses But My Own Afflict Me; They Seem Harsh, Impertinent, And Irksome