Sleep, Silence's Child, Sweet Father Of Soft

So That My Life Be Brave, What Though Not Long?

He Who Dares Not (reason), Is A Slave.

My Thoughts Hold Mortal Strife, I Do Detest My Life, And With Lamenting Cries, Peace To My Soul To Bring, Oft Calls That Prince Which Here Doth Monarchize; But He, Grim-grinning King, Who Caitiffs Scorns And Doth The Blest Surprise, Late Having Deck'd With Beauty's Rose His Tomb, Disdains To Crop A Weed, And Will Not Come.

What Sweet Delight A Quiet Life Affords.

Books Have That Strange Quality, That Being Of The Frailest And Tenderest Matter, They Outlast Brass, Iron And Marble.