I am not of those miserable males
Who sniff at vice and, daring not to snap,
Do therefore hope for heaven.
I take the hap
Of all my deeds.
The wind that fills my sails
Propels; but I am helmsman.
Am I wrecked,
I know the devil has sufficient weight
To bear: I lay it not on him, or fate.
Besides, he's damned.
That man I do suspect
A coward, who would burden the poor deuce
With what ensues from his own slipperiness.
I have just found a wanton-scented tress
In an old desk, dusty for lack of use.
Of days and nights it is demonstrative,
That, like some aged star, gleam luridly.
If for those times I must ask charity,
Have I not any charity to give?
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