Our Reason Is Our Law.

Fame Is The Last Infirmity Of The Human Mind.

The Hungry Sheep Look Up, And Are Not Fed, But, Swoln With Wind, And The Rank Mist They Draw, Rot Inwardly, And Foul Contagion Spread: Besides What The Grim Wolf With Privy Paw Daily Devours Apace, And Nothing Said; But That Two-handed Engine At The Door Stands Ready To Smite Once, And Smite No More.

Meadows Trim With Daisies Pied, Shallow Brooks And Rivers Wide Towers And Battlements It Sees Bosom'd High In Tufted Trees, Where Perhaps Some Beauty Lies, The Cynosure Of Neighboring Eyes.

God Has Set Labor And Rest, As Day And Night To Men Successive.

But See! Thevirgin Blessed Hath Laid Her Babe To Rest. Time Is Our Tedious Song Should Here Have Ending.