My Heart Contains Of Good, Wise, Just,

These Evils I Deserve, And More . . . . Justly, Yet Despair Not Of His Final Pardon, Whose Ear Is Ever Open, And His Eye Gracious To Re-admit The Suppliant.

O Fairest Flower! No Sooner Blown But Blasted, Soft Silken Primrose Fading Timelessly.

Hell Has No Benefits, Only Torture.

What Hath Night To Do With Sleep?

Opinion In Good Men Is But Knowledge In The Making.