Let Man's Soul Be A Sphere, And

We Are All Conceived In Close Prison; In Our Mothers Wombs, We Are Close Prisoners All; When We Are Born, We Are Born But To The Liberty Of The House; Prisoners Still, Though Within Larger Walls; And Then All Our Life Is But A Going Out To The Place Of Execution, To Death.

My World's Both Parts, And 'o! Both Parts Must Die.

But He Who Loveliness Within Hath Found, All Outward Loathes, For He Who Color Loves, And Skin, Loves But Their Oldest Clothes.

How Imperfect Is All Our Knowledge!

Wicked Is Not Much Worse Than Indiscreet.