Good Luck Befriend Thee, Son; For At

In Contemplation Of Created Things, By Steps We May Ascend To God.

A Bevy Of Fair Women.

I Fled, And Cry'd Out, Death; Hell Trembled At The Hideous Name, And Sigh'd From All Her Caves, And Back Resounded, Death.

Hence, Loathèd Melancholy, Of Cerberus And Blackest Midnight Born, In Stygian Cave Forlorn, 'mongst Horrid Shapes, And Shrieks, And Sights Unholy.

They Eat, They Drink, And In Communion Sweet Quaff Immortality And Joy.