Music Is Inarticulate Poesy.

Even Victors Are By Victories Undone.

As When The Dove Returning Bore The Mark Of Earth Restored To The Long Labouring Ark; The Relics Of Mankind, Secure At Rest, Oped Every Window To Receive The Guest, And The Fair Bearer Of The Message Bless'd.

But Love's A Malady Without A Cure.

All Empire Is No More Than Power In Trust.

For Truth Has Such A Face And Such A Mien, As To Be Loved Needs Only To Be Seen.