...for Her Whom In Life Thou Dids't

The Merchant, To Secure His Treasure The Merchant, To Secure His Treasure, Conveys It In A Borrowed Name: Euphelia Serves To Grace My Measure, But Cloe Is My Real Flame. My Softest Verse, My Darling Lyre Upon Euphelia's Toilet Lay - When Cloe Noted Her Desire That I Should Sing, That I Should Play. My Lyre I Tune, My Voice I Raise, But With My Numbers Mix My Sighs; And Whilst I Sing Euphelia's Praise, I Fix My Soul On Cloe's Eyes. Fair Cloe Blushed; Euphelia Frowned: I Sung, And Gazed; I Played, And Trembled: And Venus To The Loves Around Remarked How Ill We All Dissembled.

I Have Before Suggested That A Genuine Blackguard Is Never Without A Pocket-handkerchief.

All Works Of Art Should Begin... At The End.

The Nose Of A Mob Is Its Imagination. By This, At Any Time, It Can Be Quietly Led.

To Elevate The Soul, Poetry Is Necessary.