A Glory Gilds The Sacred

Not To Understand A Treasure's Worth Till Time Has Stole Away The Slighted Good, Is Cause Of Half The Poverty We Feel, And Makes The World The Wilderness It Is.

Absence Of Occupation Is Not Rest.

All We Behold Is Miracle.

Some To The Fascination Of A Name, Surrender Judgment Hoodwinked.

Unless A Love Of Virtue Light The Flame, Satire Is, More Than Those He Brands, To Blame; He Hides Behind A Magisterial Air He Own Offences, And Strips Others' Bare.