Put Forth Thy Hand, Reach At The

Thou Art A Boil, A Plague Sore, An Embossed Carbuncle In My Corrupted Blood.

Men That Hazard All Do It In Hope Of Fair Advantages: A Golden Mind Stoops Not To Shows Of Dross.

The Violence Of Either Grief Or Joy, Their Own Enactures With Themselves Destroy.

And Simple Truth Miscalled Simplicity

I Despised My Arrival On This Earth And I Despise My Departure; It Is A Tragedy.