The Reticent Volcano Keeps His Never Slumbering

Two Seasons, It Is Said, Exist- The Summer Of The Just, And This Of Ours, Diversified With Prospect, And With Frost- May Not Our Second With Its First So Infinite Compare That We But Recollect The One The Other To Prefer?

Unto A Broken Heart No Other One May Go Without The High Prerogative Itself Hath Suffered Too.

The Past Is Not A Package One Can Lay Away.

We Trust In Plumed Procession For Such The Angels Go Rank After Rank, With Even Feet/and Uniforms Of Snow.

Why Should We Censure Othello When The Criterion Lover Says, "thou Shalt Have No Other Gods Before Me"?