Though Death Be Poor, It Ends A

Value Dwells Not In Particular Will; It Holds His Estimate And Dignity As Well Wherein 'tis Precious Of Itself As In The Prizer.

I'll Fight, Till From My Bones My Flesh Be Hacked.

For Night's Swift Dragons Cut The Clouds Full Fast, And Yonder Shines Aurora's Harbinger; At Whose Approach Ghosts Wandring Here And There Troop Home To Church-yards.... For Fear Lest Day Should Look Their Shames Upon, They Willfully Exile Themselves From Light, And Must For Aye Consort With Black Brow'd Night.

We Cannot All Be Masters, Nor All Masters Cannot Be Truly Followed.

O Father Abram, What These Christians Are, Whose Own Hard Dealing Teaches Them Suspect The Thoughts Of Others!