It Was From Out The Rind Of

Smiles From Reason Flow, To Brute Deny'd, And Are Of Love The Food.

Spirits That Live Throughout, Vital In Every Part, Not As Frail Man, In Entrails, Heart Or Head, Liver Or Reins, Cannot But By Annihilating Die.

All Seemed Well Pleased, All Seemed, But Were Not All.

Extol Not Riches Then, The Toil Of Fools, The Wise Man's Cumbrance, If Not Snare, More Apt To Slacken Virtue, And Abate Her Edge, Than Prompt Her To Do Aught May Merit Praise.

So May'st Thou Live, Till Like Ripe Fruit Thou Drop Into Thy Mother's Lap.