I Rejoiced In My Progress, Mourned My

Hope Is Incredible To The Slave Of Grief.

My Flowery And Green Age Was Passing Away, And I Feeling A Chill In The Fires Had Been Wasting My Heart, For I Was Drawing Near The Hillside Above The Grave.

For Death Betimes Is Comfort, Not Dismay, And Who Can Rightly Die Needs No Delay.

Man Has Not A Greater Enemy Than Himself.

Life In Itself Is Short Enough, But The Physicians With Their Art, Know To Their Amusement, How To Make It Still Shorter.