He was a reprobate I grant and always liquored till his money went. His hair depended on a noosed from a Corona Veneris. His eyes, dumb like prisoners in their cavernous slots, were settled in attitudes of despair. You who God bless you never sunk so low censure and pray for him that he was so; and with his failings you regret the verses the fellow made, probably between curses, probably in the extremes of moral decay, but he wrote them in a sincere way: and appears to have felt a refined pain to which your virtue cannot attain. Respect him. For this He had an excellence which you miss. |