The Dew, 'tis Of The Tears Which

Corruption Springs From Light: 'tis One Same Power Creates, Preserves, Destroys; Matter Whereon It Works, On E'er Self-transmutative Form, Common To Now The Living, Now The Dead.

It Is Fine To Stand Upon Some Lofty Mountain Thought, And Feel The Spirit Stretch Into A View.

As The Master So The Valet.

The Sun, Centre And Sire Of Light, The Keystone Of The World-built Arch Of Heaven.

It Is No Great Misfortune To Oblige Ungrateful People, But An Unsupportable One To Be Forced To Be Under An Obligation To A Scoundrel.