The Fool Who Persists In His Folly

What Seems To Be, Is, To Those To Whom It Seems To Be, And Is Productive Of The Most Dreadful Consequences To Those To Whom It Seems To Be, Even Of Torments, Despair, Eternal Death.

Sweet Babe, In Thy Face Soft Desires I Can Trace, Secret Joys And Secret Smiles, Little Pretty Infant Wiles.

Where Lambs Have Nibbled, Silent Moves The Feet Of Angels Bright; Unseen They Pour Blessing, And Joy Without Ceasing, On Each Bud And Blossom, And Each Sleeping Bosom.

But When He Has Done This, Let Him Not Say That He Knows Better Than His Master, For He Only Holds A Candle In Sunshine.

All Futurity Seems Teeming With Endless Destruction Never To Be Repelled; Desperate Remorse Swallows The Present In A Quenchless Rage.