I do not look with favor on the collecting of first editions and autographs, but it is a vice which is sometimes found in otherwise virtuous persons.
Malt does more than Milton can, To justify God’s ways to man.
That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, The happy highways where I went And cannot come again.
The laws of God, the laws of man He may keep that will and can; Not I: let God and man decree Laws for themselves and not for me.
I, a stranger and afraid In a world I never made.
Who made the world I cannot tell; ‘Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.
And malt does more than Milton can To justify God’s ways to man.
In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.
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