Death Aims With Fouler Spiteat Fairer Marks.

My Soul, What's Lighter Than A Feather? Wind. Than Wind? The Fire. And What Than Fire? The Mind. What's Lighter Than The Mind? A Thought. Than Thought? This Bubble World. What Than This Bubble? Nought.

For Trash And Toys, And Grief-engend'ring Joys, What Torment Seems Too Sharp For Flesh And Blood; What Bitter Pills, Compos'd Of Real Ills, Men Swallow Down To Purchase One False Good!

The Next Way Home's The Farthest Way About.

God's Pleasure Is At The End Of Our Prayers.

Be As Far From Desiring The Popular Love As Fearful To Deserve The Popular Hate; Ruin Dwells In Both: The One Will Hug Thee To Death; The Other Will Crush Thee To Destruction: To Escape The First, Be Not Ambitious; To Avoid The Second, Be Not Seditious.