A Woman Being Never At A Loss...

Tyranny Is For The Worst Of Treasons.

Tis Not On Youth's Smooth Cheek The Blush Alone, Which Fades So Fast, But The Tender Bloom Of Heart Is Gone, Ere Youth Itself Be Past.

But At Sixteen The Conscience Rarely Gnaws So Much, As When We Call Our Old Debts In At Sixty Years, And Draw The Accounts Of Evil, And Find A Deuced Balance With The Devil.

And Wrinkles, The Damned Democrats, Won't Flatter.

One Of The Pleasures Of Reading Old Letters Is The Knowledge That They Need No Answer.