The Secret Pleasure Of A Generous Act

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.

Let Fortune Empty Her Whole Quiver On Me, I Have A Soul That, Like An Ample Shield, Can Take In All, And Verge Enough For More; Fate Was Not Mine, Nor Am I Fate's: Souls Know No Conquerors.

But Shakespeare's Magic Could Not Copied Be; Within That Circle None Durst Walk But He.

Go Miser Go, For Money Sell Your Soul. Trade Wares For Wares And Trudge From Pole To Pole, So Others May Say When You Are Dead And Gone. See What A Vast Estate He Left His Son.

Silence In Times Of Suffering Is The Best.