human
on the stage. But now, where is Hate?--who ever sees its face? Is it that smiling, good-tempered creature, that presses you by the hand so cordially? or that dignified figure of state that calls you its
gpt
Is it that bowing, grateful dependent?--is it that soft-eyed Amaryllis? Ask not, guess not; you will only know it to be Hate when the poison is in your cup, or the poniard in your breast. In the Gothic age, grim Humor painted
human
in our polished century, some sardonic wit should give us