[t]hey Stretch You On A Table. Then

It Matters Not How Strait The Gate, How Charged With Punishments The Scroll; I Am The Master Of My Fate: I Am The Captain Of My Soul.

Life - Life - Life! 'tis The Sole Great Thing This Side Of Death, Heart On Heart In The Wonder Of Spring!

And Lo, The Hospital, Gray, Quiet, Old, Where Life And Death Like Friendly Chafferers Meet.

Men There Have Been Who Have Done The Essayist's Part So Well As To Have Earned An Immortality In The Doing; But We Have Had Not Many Of Them, And They Make But A Poor Figure On Our Shelves. It Is A Pity That Things Should Be Thus With Us, For A Good Essayist Is The Pleasantest Companion Imaginable.

[t]hey Stretch You On A Table. Then They Bid You Close Your Eyelids, And They Mask You With A Napkin, And The Anæsthetic Reaches Hot And Subtle Through Your Being.