In A Fleshly Tomb, I Am Buried

Fancy, Like The Finger Of A Clock, Runs The Great Circuit, And Is Still At Home.

To Impute Our Recovery To Medicine, And To Carry Our View No Further, Is To Rob God Of His Honor, And Is Saying In Effect That He Has Parted With The Keys Of Life And Death, And, By Giving To A Drug The Power To Heal Us, Has Placed Our Lives Out Of His Own Reach.

Twere Better To Be Born A Stone Of Ruder Shape, And Feeling None, Than With A Tenderness Like Mine And Sensibilities So Fine! Ah, Hapless Wretch! Condemn'd To Dwell Forever In My Native Shell, Ordained To Move When Others Please, Not For My Own Content Or Ease; But Toss'd And Buffeted About, Now In The Water And Now Out.

[my Kitten's] Gambols Are Not To Be Described, And Would Be Incredible, If They Could.

War's A Game, Which, Were Their Subjects Wise, Kings Would Not Play At.