Curse on the man who business first designed

I wear my Pen as others do their Sword. To each affronting sot I meet, the word Is Satisfaction: straight to thrusts I go, And pointed satire runs him through and through.

Ah, dearer than my soul… Dearer than light, or life, or fame.

And should you visit now the seats of bliss, You need not wear another form but this.

Altho' your frailer part must yield to Fate, By every breach in that fair lodging made, Its blest inhabitant is more displayed.

While some no other cause for life can give But a dull habitude to live.

Lord of myself, accountable to none, But to my conscience, and my God alone.