For This Relief, Much Thanks

Society Is No Comfort, To One Not Sociable.

Virtue Is Chok'd With Foul Ambition

Death Where Is Thy Sting? Love, Where Is Thy Glory?

I Go, I Go, Look How I Go, Swifter Than An Arrow From A Bow

Glory Is Like A Circle In The Water, Which Never Ceaseth To Enlarge Itself, Till, By Broad Spreading, It Disperse To Naught.