Lust-bred Diseases Rot Thee.

If We Consider Eternity, Into That Time Never Entered; Eternity Is Not An Everlasting Flux Of Time, But Time Is As A Short Parenthesis In A Long Period; And Eternity Had Been The Same As It Is, Though Time Had Never Been.

Busy Old Fool, Unruly Sun, Why Dost Thou Thus Through Windows And Through Curtains Call On Us? Must To Thy Motions Lovers Seasons Run?

To Rage, To Lust, To Write To, To Commend, All Is The Purlieu Of The God Of Love.

What Gnashing Is Not A Comfort, What Gnawing Of The Worm Is Not A Tickling, What Torment Is Not A Marriage Bed To This Damnation, To Be Secluded Eternally, Eternally, Eternally From The Sight Of God?

Death Is An Ascension To A Better Library.