In A Fleshly Tomb, I

Vice Stings Us Even In Our Pleasures, But Virtue Consoles Us Even In Our Pains.

I Venerate The Man Whose Heart Is Warm, Whose Hands Are Pure, Whose Doctrine And Whose Life, Coincident, Exhibit Lucid Proof That He Is Honest In The Sacred Cause.

As If The World And They Were Hand And Glove.

Knowledge, A Rude Unprofitable Mass, The Mere Materials With Which Wisdom Builds, Till Smoothed And Squared And Fitted To Its Place, Does But Encumber Whom It Seems To Enrich. Knowledge Is Proud That He Has Learned So Much; Wisdom Is Humble That He Knows No More.

Remorse, The Fatal Egg That Pleasure Laid.