Friends Are Ourselves.

I Throw Myself Down In My Chamber, And I Call In, And Invite God, And His Angels Thither, And When They Are There, I Neglect God And His Angels, For The Noise Of A Fly, For The Rattling Of A Coach, For The Whining Of A Door.

What Gnashing Is Not A Comfort, What Gnawing Of The Worm Is Not A Tickling, What Torment Is Not A Marriage Bed To This Damnation, To Be Secluded Eternally, Eternally, Eternally From The Sight Of God?

How Imperfect Is All Our Knowledge!

At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow Your Trumpets, Angels.

And Swear No Where Lives A Woman True, And Fair.