O War! Thou Son Of Hell!

Youth To Itself Rebels, Though None Else Near.

Lord, Lord, How Subject We Old Men Are To This Vice Of Lying!

When I Have Plucked The Rose, I Cannot Give It Vital Growth Again, It Needs Must Wither. I'll Smell It On The Tree.

Gnawing With My Teeth My Bonds In Sunder, I Gain'd My Freedom.

Love Like A Shadow Flies When Substance Love Pursues Pursuing That That Flies, And Flying What Pursues.