To Take Up Half On Trust, And

While I Am Compassed Round With Mirth, My Soul Lies Hid In Shades Of Grief, Whence, Like The Bird Of Night, With Half-shut Eyes, She Peeps, And Sickens At The Sight Of Day.

Successful Crimes Alone Are Justified.

Long Pains, With Use Of Bearing, Are Half Eased.

For Truth Has Such A Face And Such A Mien, As To Be Loved Needs Only To Be Seen.

Among Our Crimes Oblivion May Be Set.