And, Dying, Bless The Hand That Gave

Not Sharp Revenge, Nor Hell Itself Can Find, A Fiercer Torment Than A Guilty Mind, Which Day And Night Doth Dreadfully Accuse, Condemns The Wretch, And Still The Charge Renews.

Love Reckons Hours For Months, And Days For Years; And Every Little Absence Is An Age.

Dreams Are But Interludes That Fancy Makes... Sometimes Forgotten Things, Long Cast Behind Rush Forward In The Brain, And Come To Mind.

Ill Habits Gather Unseen Degrees, As Brooks Make Rivers, Rivers Run To Seas.

There Is A Proud Modesty In Merit.