The Eyes Are The Window To Your

O Ceremony, Show Me But Thy Worth? What Is Thy Soul Of Adoration? Art Thou Aught Else But Place, Degree, And Form, Creating Awe And Fear In Other Men?

Now, Neighbor Confines, Purge You Of Your Scum! Have You A Ruffian That Will Swear, Drink, Dance, Revel The Night, Rob, Murder, And Commit The Oldest Sins The Newest Kind Of Ways?

Get Thee A Good Husband, And Use Him As He Uses Thee.

It Were A Grief So Brief To Part With Thee. Farewell.

Against Self-slaughter There Is A Prohibition So Divine That Cravens My Weak Hand.