It's Easy For Someone To

A Hand As Fruitful As The Land That Feeds Us; His Dew Falls Everywhere.

This Goodly Frame, The Earth, Seems To Me A Sterile Promontory.

Virtue Is Beauty, But The Beauteous Evil. Are Empty Trunks O'erflourished By The Devil.

But Thought's The Slave Of Life, And Life Time's Fool.

What Is A Man, If His Chief Good And Market Of His Time Be But To Sleep And Feed? A Beast, No More. Sure He That Made Us With Such Large Discourse, Looking Before And After, Gave Us Not That Capability And God-like Reason To Fust In Us Unused.