O Death, O Beyond, Thou Art Sweet,

This Race Is Never Grateful: From The First, One Fills Their Cup At Supper With Pure Wine, Which Back They Give At Cross-time On A Sponge, In Bitter Vinegar.

For Me, My Heart, That Erst Did Go Most Like A Tired Child At A Show, That Sees Through Tears The Mummers Leap, Would Now Its Wearied Vision Close, Would Childlike On His Love Repose, Who Giveth His Beloved, Sleep.

The Devil's Most Devilish When Respectable.

Souls Are Dangerous Things To Carry Straight Through All The Spilt Saltpetre Of This World.

We Overstate The Ills Of Life, And Take Imagination... Down Our Earth To Rake.