To Be Blind Is Not Miserable; Not

Man Hath His Daily Work Of Body Or Mind Appointed.

Time Is The Subtle Thief Of Youth.

Our Cure, To Be No More; Sad Cure!

Which, If Not Victory, Is Yet Revenge.

And Fast By, Hanging In A Golden Chain, This Pendent World, In Bigness As A Star Of Smallest Magnitude, Close By The Moon.