... And Death Unloads Thee.

We Should Hold Day With The Antipodes, If You Would Walk In Absence Of The Sun.

No Reckoning Made, But Sent To My Account With All My Imperfections On My Head.

The Dear Father Would With His Daughter Speak, Commands Her Service; Are They Inform'd Of This?

Reflection Is The Business Of Man; A Sense Of His State Is His First Duty: But Who Remembereth Himself In Joy? Is It Not In Mercy Then That Sorrow Is Allotted Unto Us?

Time Hath, My Lord, A Wallet At His Back Wherein He Puts Alms For Oblivion, A Great-sized Monster Of Ingratitudes: Those Scraps Are Good Deeds Past, Which Are Devour'd As Fast As They Are Made, Forgot As Soon As Done.