He Who Would Search For Pearls Must

Ill News Is Wing'd With Fate, And Flies Apace.

An Horrible Stillness First Invades Our Ear, And In That Silence We The Tempest Fear.

Death In Itself Is Nothing; But We Fear To Be We Know Not What, We Know Not Where.

If Thou Dost Still Retain The Same Ill Habits, The Same Follies, Too, Still Thou Art Bound To Vice, And Still A Slave.

Every Language Is So Full Of Its Own Proprieties That What Is Beautiful In One Is Often Barbarous, Nay, Sometimes Nonsense, In Another.