And Little Eagles Wave Their Wings In

No Louder Shrieks To Pitying Heaven Are Cast, When Husbands Or Lap-dogs Breathe Their Last.

Is Not Absence Death To Those Who Love?

Seas Roll To Waft Me, Suns To Light Me Rise; My Footstool Earth, My Canopy The Skies.

Our Proper Bliss Depends On What We Blame.

But Blind To Former As To Future Fate, What Mortal Knows His Pre-existent State?