The Pure Soul Shall Mount On Native

To Create A Little Flower Is The Labour Of Ages.

Naught Can Deform The Human Race Like To The Armor's Iron Brace.

You Become What You Behold.

When Nations Grow Old The Arts Grow Cold And Commerce Settles On Every Tree

God Keep Me From The Divinity Of Yes And Nothe Yea Nay Creeping Jesus, From Supposing Up And Down To Be The Same Thing As Allexperimentalists Must Suppose.