Fame Is The Spur That The Clear

Time Is The Subtle Thief Of Youth.

And Fast By, Hanging In A Golden Chain, This Pendent World, In Bigness As A Star Of Smallest Magnitude, Close By The Moon.

Where No Hope Is Left, Is Left No Fear.

Part Of My Soul I Seek Thee, And Claim Thee My Other Half

Consider First, That Great Or Bright Infers Not Excellence.