Its Visits, Like Those Of Angels, Short,

But If There Be An Hereafter,and That There Is, Conscience, Uninfluenc'dand Suffer'd To Speak Out, Tells Every Man,then Must It Be An Awful Thing To Die;more Horrid Yet To Die By One's Own Hand.

Throughout The Whole Vegetable, Sensible, And Rational World, Whatever Makes Progress Towards Maturity, As Soon As It Has Passed That Point, Begins To Verge Towards Decay.

Our Time Is Fixed, And All Our Days Are Number'd; How Long, How Short, We Know Not:—this We Know, Duty Requires We Calmly Wait The Summons, Nor Dare To Stir Till Heaven Shall Give Permission.

Of Joys Departed, Not To Return, How Painful The Remembrance

When It Draws Near To Witching Time Of Night.