Death: The Grand Perhaps.

Shun Death, Is My Advice.

No Thought Which Ever Stirred A Human Breast Should Be Untold.

God Smiles As He Has Always Smiled; Ere Suns And Moons Could Wax And Wane, Ere Stars Were Thundergirt, Or Piled The Heavens, God Thought On Me His Child; Ordained A Life For Me, Arrayed Its Circumstances, Every One To The Minutest; Ay, God Said This Head This Hand Should Rest Upon Thus, Ere He Fashioned Star Or Sun.

What So Wild As Words Are?

Though Rome's Gross Yoke Drops Off, No More To Be Endured, Her Teaching Is Not So Obscured By Errors And Perversities, That No Truth Shines Athwart The Lies.