Joys Impregnate. Sorrows Bring Forth.

Mysteries Are Not To Be Solved. They Eye Goes Blind When It Only Wants To See Why.

One Thought Fills Immensity.

Thou Fair-hair'd Angel Of The Evening, Now, Whilst The Sun Rests On The Mountains, Light Thy Bright Torch Of Love; Thy Radiant Crown Put On, And Smile Upon Our Evening Bed!

Mercy Is The Golden Chain By Which Society Is Bound Together.

Some Say That Happiness Is Not Good For Mortals, & They Ought To Be Answered That Sorrow Is Not Fit For Immortals & Is Utterly Useless To Any One; A Blight Never Does Good To A Tree, & If A Blight Kill Not A Tree But It Still Bear Fruit, Let None Say That The Fruit Was In Consequence Of The Blight.