He Who Proposes To Be An Author

Beauty, Like Ice, Our Footing Does Betray; Who Can Tread Sure On The Smooth, Slippery Way: Pleased With The Surface, We Glide Swiftly On, And See The Dangers That We Cannot Shun.

Like Pilgrims To Th' Appointed Place We Tend; The World's An Inn, And Death The Journey's End.

For Your Ignorance Is The Mother Of Your Devotion To Me.

He Is The Very Janus Of Poets; He Wears Almost Everywhere Two Faces; And You Have Scarce Begun To Admire The One, Ere You Despise The Other.

Luxurious Kings Are To Their People Lost, They Live Like Drones, Upon The Public Cost.