The Rich Have No More Of The

Young Men Mend Not Their Sight By Using Old Men's Spectacles.

Enjoyment Always Has A Spoiling, Otherwise It Cannot Be So.

And What Is So Intricate, So Entangling As Death? Who Ever Got Out Of A Winding Sheet?

Batter My Heart, Three-personed God, For You As Yet But Knock; Breathe, Shine, And Seek To Mend; That I May Rise, And Stand, O'erthrow Me, And Bend Your Force To Break, Blow, Burn, And Make Me New.

Licence My Roving Hands, And Let Them Go Before, Behind, Between, Above, Below.