The Dew, 'tis Of The Tears Which

Envy's A Coal Comes Hissing Hot From Hell.

There Is No Disappointment We Endure One-half So Great As What We Are To Ourselves.

Men Might Be Better If We Better Deemed Of Them.

It Is Sad To See The Light Of Beauty Wane Away, Know Eyes Are Dimming, Bosoms Shrivelling, Feet Losing Their Springs, And Limbs Their Lily Roundness; But It Is Worse To Feel The Heart-spring Gone, To Lose Hope, Care Not For The Coming Thing, And Feel All Things Go To Decay Within Us.

We Must Not Pluck Death From The Maker's Hand.