That Soul That Can Be Honest Is

The Coward's Weapon, Poison.

It's Impossible To Ravish Me, I'm So Willing.

Joys As Winged Dreams Fly Fast, / Why Should Sadness Longer Last? / Grief Is But A Wound To Woe; / Gentlest Fair, Mourn, Mourn No Moe.

Ask How To Live? Write, Write, Write, Anything; The World's A Fine Believing World, Write News.

Man Is His Own Star, And The Soul That Can, Render An Honest And A Perfect Man, Commands All Light, All Influence, All Fate: Nothing To Him Falls Early Or Too Late. Our Acts Are Angels Are, For Good Or Ill: Our Fatal Shadows That Walk By Us Still.