On Commissary Goldie’s Brains
Lord, to account who dares thee call, Or e’er dispute thy pleasure? Else why, within so thick a wall, Enclose so poor a treasure?
Lines Inscribed in a Lady’s Pocket Almanac
Grant me, indulgent Heaven, that I may live, To see the miscreants feel the pains they give; Deal Freedom’s sacred treasures free as air, Till Slave and Despot be but things that were.