While some no other cause for life can give

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.

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

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

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

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