But She Makes Hungry Where She Most

Look, The World's Comforter, With Weary Gait, His Day's Hot Task Hath Ended In The West: The Owl, Night's Herald, Shrieks-'tis Very Late; The Sheep Are Gone To Fold, Birds To Their Nest; And Coal-black Clouds, That Shadow Heaven's Light, Do Summon Us To Part, And Bid Good Night.

Our Enemies Are Our Outward Consciences.

Passion Lends Them Power, Time Means To Meet, Tempering Extremities With Extremes Sweet.

I Am Afeard There Are Few Die Well That Die In Battle, For How Can They Charitably Dispose Of Anything When Blood Is Their Argument?

Absence From Those We Love Is Self From Self - A Deadly Banishment.