Who, As They Sung, Would Take The

Seasoned Life Of Man Preserved And Stored Up In Books.

Now Came Still Evening On; And Twilight Gray Had In Her Sober Livery All Things Clad: Silence Accompanied; For Beast And Bird, They To They Grassy Couch, These To Their Nests, Were Slunk, All But The Wakeful Nightingale.

Long Is The Way And Hard, That Out Of Hell Leads Up To Light.

Where More Is Meant Than Meets The Ear.

Virtue That Wavers Is Not Virtue.