Truth Is Never To Be Expected From

Our Souls Sit Close And Silently Within, And Their Own Web From Their Own Entrails Spin; And When Eyes Meet Far Off, Our Sense Is Such, That, Spider-like, We Feel The Tenderest Touch.

The Trumpet's Loud Clangor Excites Us To Arms.

Either Be Wholly Slaves Or Wholly Free.

All Objects Lose By Too Familiar A View.

Sure There Is None But Fears A Future State; And When The Most Obdurate Swear They Do Not, Their Trembling Hearts Belie Their Boasting Tongues.