His Neigh Is Like The Bidding Of

My Grief Lies All Within, And These External Manners Of Lament Are Merely Shadows To The Unseen Grief That Swells With Silence In The Tortured Soul.

You Must Confine Yourself Within The Modest Limits Of Order.

Why Are Our Bodies Soft, And Weak, And Smooth But That Our Soft Conditions And Our Hearts Should Well Agree With Our External Parts?

Let Every Eye Negotiate For Itself And Trust No Agent.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.