God Made Thee Perfect, Not Immutable.

So May'st Thou Live, Till Like Ripe Fruit Thou Drop Into Thy Mother's Lap, Or Be With Ease Gathered, Not Harshly Plucked, For Death Mature: This Is Old Age; But Then Thou Must Outlive Thy Youth, Thy Strength, Thy Beauty, Which Will Change To Withered Weak And Grey.

There Is No Truth Sure Enough To Justify Persecution.

Beauty Stands In The Admiration Only Of Weak Minds Led Captive.

Bacchus, That First From Out The Purple Grape Crush'd The Sweet Poison Of Misused Wine.

If The Will, Which In The Law Of Our Nature, Were Withdrawn From Our Memory, Fancy, Understanding, And Reason, No Other Hell Could Equal, For A Spiritual Being, What We Should Then Feel From The Anarchy Of Our Powers. It Would Be Conscious Madness,--a Horrid Thought!