Soft Pity Enters An Iron Gate.

He's Of The Colour Of The Nutmeg. And Of The Heat Of The Ginger.... He Is Pure Air And Fire; And The Dull Elements Of Earth And Water Never Appear In Him, But Only In Patient Stillness While His Rider Mounts Him; He Is Indeed A Horse, And All Other Jades You May Call Beasts.

At Christmas, I No More Desire A Rose.

We Are The Lords Of All Eternity

Take Pains. Be Perfect.

Some Kinds Of Baseness Are Nobly Undergone.