Luck Is The Residue Of Design.

Earth Felt The Wound; And Nature From Her Seat, Sighing Through All Her Works, Gave Signs Of Woe That All Was Lost.

Laws Can Discover Sin, But Not Remove It

Now I See Peace To Corrupt No Less Than War To Waste.

Unless An Age Too Late, Or Cold Climate, Or Years, Damp My Intended Wing.

He That Has Light Within His Own Clear Breast May Sit In The Centre, And Enjoy Bright Day: But He That Hides A Dark Soul And Foul Thoughts Benighted Walks Under The Mid-day Sun; Himself His Own Dungeon.