Altho' your frailer part must yield to Fate

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.

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

Curse on the man who business first designed, And by't enthralled a freeborn lover's mind!

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