The Best Things Beyond Their Measure Cloy.

I Want To Be Alone With My Thought.

For Never, Never, Wicked Man Was Wise.

There Will Be Killing Till The Score Is Paid.

And Endless Are The Modes Of Speech, And Far Extends From Side To Side The Field Of Words.

Anger, Which, Far Sweeter Than Trickling Drops Of Honey, Rises In The Bosom Of A Man Like Smoke.