What Ugly Sights Of Death Within Mine

As Full Of Spirit As The Month Of May, And As Gorgeous As The Sun In Midsummer.

Were All The Letters Sun, I Could Not See One.

Sweets With Sweets War Not, Joy Delights In Joy.

I Never See Thy Face But I Think Upon Hell-fire.

Our Rash Faults Make Trivial Price Of Serious Thing We Have, Not Knowing Them Until We Know Their Grave.