Where Hateful Death Put On His Ugliest

Death, As The Psalmist Saith, Is Certain To All, All Shall Die.

That Is The Way To Lay The City Flat, To Bring The Roof To The Foundation, And Bury All, Which Yet Distinctly Ranges, In Heaps And Piles Of Ruin.

Until I Know This Sure Uncertainty, I'll Entertain The Offered Fallacy.

I Am A Kind Of Burr; I Shall Stick.

The Gray-eyed Morn Smiles On The Frowning Night, Checkering The Eastern Clouds With Streaks Of Light.