Who Falls For Love Of God, Shall

God Wisheth None Should Wreck On A Strange Shelf: To Him Man's Dearer Than To Himself.

A New Disease? I Know Not, New Or Old, But It May Well Be Called Poor Mortals Plague For, Like A Pestilence, It Doth Infect The Houses Of The Brain Till Not A Thought, Or Motion, In The Mind, Be Free From The Black Poison Of Suspect.

Confound These Ancestors... They've Stolen Our Best Ideas!

Freedom Doth With Degree Dispense.

If You Be Sick, Your Own Thoughts Make You Sick