Evil Is Limited. One Cannot Form A

Hell Is The Wrath Of God--his Hate Of Sin.

A Poet Not In Love Is Out At Sea; He Must Have A Lay-figure.

Dewdrops, Nature's Tears, Which She Sheds In Her Own Breast For The Fair Which Die. The Sun Insists On Gladness; But At Night, When He Is Gone, Poor Nature Loves To Weep.

Ah, Nothing Comes To Us Too Soon But Sorrow.

The Truth Is Perilous Never To The True, Nor Knowledge To The Wise; And To The Fool, And To The False, Error And Truth Alike, Error Is Worse Than Ignorance.