Busy Old Fool, Unruly Sun, Why Dost

Let Not Thy Divining Heart Forethink Me Any Ill; Destiny May Take Thy Part, And May Thy Fears Fulfill.

He That Desires To Print A Book, Should Much More Desire, To Be A Book.

Licence My Roving Hands, And Let Them Go Before, Behind, Between, Above, Below.

Never Start With Tomorrow To Reach Eternity. Eternity Is Not Being Reached By Small Steps.

What Gnashing Is Not A Comfort, What Gnawing Of The Worm Is Not A Tickling, What Torment Is Not A Marriage Bed To This Damnation, To Be Secluded Eternally, Eternally, Eternally From The Sight Of God?