A Few Drops Sprinkled On The Torch

Good Even, Good Fair Moon, Good Even To Thee. I Prithee, Dear Moon, Now Show To Me The Form And The Features, The Speech And Degree, Of The Man That True Lover Of Mine Shall Be.

He Who Indulges His Sense In Any Excesses Renders Himself Obnoxious To His Own Reason; And, To Gratify The Brute In Him, Displeases The Man, And Sets His Two Natures At Variance.

We Do That In Our Zeal Our Calmer Moment Would Be Afraid To Answer.

He That Climbs The Tall Tree Has Won Right To The Fruit, He That Leaps The Wide Gulf Should Prevail In His Suit.

There Never Will Exist Anything Permanently Noble And Excellent In The Character Which Is A Stranger To Resolute Self-denial.