To Go To Bed After Midnight Is

The Will Of Man Is By His Reason Sway'd.

And Nothing Is, But What Is Not.

Death, That Hath Suck'd The Honey Of Thy Breath Hath Had No Power Yet Upon Thy Beauty.

O' What May Man Within Him Hide, Though Angel On The Outward Side!

Glory Is Like A Circle In The Water, Which Never Ceaseth To Enlarge Itself, Till, By Broad Spreading, It Disperse To Naught.