I Durst Not Laugh For Fear Of

The Will Of Man Is By His Reason Sway'd.

. . . Nothing In His Life Became Him Like The Leaving It; He Died As One That Had Been Studied In His Death To Throw Away The Dearest Thing He Owed, As 'twere A Careless Trifle.

What Is Light, If Sylvia Be Not Seen? What Is Joy If Sylvia Be Not By?

A Woman Moved Is Like A Fountain Troubled, Muddy, Ill-seeming, Thick, Bereft Of Beauty.

He Is Not Great Who Is Not Greatly Good.