He Was Not So Much Brain As

Grace And Remembrance Be To You Both.

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.

As There Comes Light From Heaven And Words From Breath, As There Is Sense In Truth And Truth In Virtue

He's Mad That Trusts In The Tameness Of A Wolf.

I Am Ill At These Numbers.