Nothing But Man Of All Envenomed Things,

I Wonder By My Troth, What Thou, And I Did, Till We Loved? Were We Not Weaned Till Then? But Sucked On Country Pleasures, Childishly? Or Snorted We In The Seven Sleepers' Den?

God Himself Took A Day To Rest In, And A Good Man's Grave Is His Sabbath.

How Imperfect Is All Our Knowledge!

Art Is The Most Passionate Orgy Within Man's Grasp.

Friends Are Ourselves.