He was a reprobate I grant, and always liquired till his money went. His hair depended on a noose from his pale brow, his eyes were 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, proberly between curses, proberly in the extreames of moral decay but he wrote them in a sincere way. And seems to have felt a sort of pain to which your imagination can not attain!SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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