Love Denied Blights The Soul We Owe

So. Lie There, My Art.

Why, Thou Owest God A Death.

Blessed Are The Peacemakers On Earth.

Yet Do I Fear Thy Nature; It Is Too Full O' The Milk Of Human Kindness To Catch The Nearest Way: Thou Wouldst Be Great; Art Not Without Ambition, But Without The Illness Should Attend It: What Thou Wouldst Highly, That Wouldst Thou Holily; Wouldst Not Play False, And Yet Wouldst Wrongly Win.

Death, As The Psalmist Saith, Is Certain To All, All Shall Die.