Long Pains, With Use Of Bearing, Are

The Greater Part Performed Achieves The Less.

Our Souls Sit Close And Silently Within, And Their Own Web From Their Own Entrails Spin; And When Eyes Meet Far Off, Our Sense Is Such, That, Spider-like, We Feel The Tenderest Touch.

But When To Sin Our Biased Nature Leans, The Careful Devil Is Still At Hand With Means; And Providently Pimps For Ill Desires.

As Poetry Is The Harmony Of Words, So Music Is That Of Notes.

For Lawful Power Is Still Superior Found, When Long Driven Back, At Length It Stands The Ground.