In The Ocean Of Baseness,

Who Is It Needs Such Flawless Shafts As Fate? What Archer Of His Arrows Is So Choice, Or Hits The White So Surely?

A Marciful Providunce Fashioned Us Holler O' Purpose Thet We Might Our Principles Swaller.

All Thoughts That Mold The Age Begin Deep Down Within The Primitive Soul.

True Love Is But A Humble, Low Born Thing, And Hath Its Food Served Up In Earthenware; It Is A Thing To Walk With, Hand In Hand, Through The Every-dayness Of This Workday World.

Tyranny Is Always Weakness