He Is The Very Janus

Go Miser Go, For Money Sell Your Soul. Trade Wares For Wares And Trudge From Pole To Pole, So Others May Say When You Are Dead And Gone. See What A Vast Estate He Left His Son.

Time Glides With Undiscover'd Haste; The Future But A Length Behind The Past.

Our Souls Sit Close And Silently Within, And Their Own Web From Their Own Entrails Spin; And When Eyes Meet Far Off, Our Sense Is Such, That, Spider-like, We Feel The Tenderest Touch.

Sure There Is None But Fears A Future State; And When The Most Obdurate Swear They Do Not, Their Trembling Hearts Belie Their Boasting Tongues.

Set All Things In Their Own Peculiar Place, And Know That Order Is The Greatest Grace.