There Is No Truth Sure Enough To

Dark With Excessive Bright.

Bring The Rathe Primrose That Forsaken Dies, The Tufted Crow-toe, And Pale Gessamine, The White Pink, And The Pansy Freaked With Jet, The Glowing Violet, The Musk-rose, And The Well Attir'd Woodbine, With Cowslips Wan That Hang The Pensive Head, And Every Flower That Sad Embroidery Wears: Bid Amaranthus All His Beauty Shed, And Daffadillies Fill Their Cups With Tears, To Strew The Laureate Hearse Where Lycid Lies.

The Whole Freedom Of Man Consists Either In Spiritual Or Civil Liberty.

No Man Who Knows Aught, Can Be So Stupid To Deny That All Men Naturally Were Born Free.

Come Knit Hands, And Beat The Ground In A Light Fantastic Round