Thus Have I, Wall, My Part Discharged

Beware The Leader Who Bangs The Drums Of War In Order To Whip The Citizenry Into A Patriotic Fervor.

The Truest Poetry Is The Most Feigning.

The Lily I Condemned For Thy Hand, And Buds Of Marjoram Had Stol'n Thy Hair: The Roses Fearfully On Thorns Did Stand, One Blushing Shame, Another White Despair; A Third, Nor Red Nor White, Had Stol'n Of Both And To His Robbery Had Annex'd Thy Breath; But, For His Theft, In Pride Of All His Growth A Vengeful Canker Eat Him Up To Death. More Flowers I Noted, Yet I None Could See But Sweet Or Colour It Had Stol'n From Thee.

Is Love A Tender Thing? It Is Too Rough, Too Rude, Too Boisterous, And It Pricks Like Thorn.

Of All Base Passions, Fear Is The Most Accursed.