Sure There Is None But Fears A

Our Souls Sit Close And Silently Within, And Their Own Web From Their Own Entrails Spin; And When Eyes Meet Far Off, Our Sense Is Such, That, Spider-like, We Feel The Tenderest Touch.

Pity Only On Fresh Objects Stays, But With The Tedious Sight Of Woes Decays.

Like Pilgrims To Th' Appointed Place We Tend; The World's An Inn, And Death The Journey's End.

A Thing Well Said Will Be Wit In All Languages.

Secret Guilt By Silence Is Betrayed.