Anger's My Meat. I Sup Upon Myself,

Men From Children Nothing Differ.

Sweets Grown Common Lose Their Dear Delight.

We Suffer A Lot The Few Things We Lack And We Enjoy Too Little The Many Things We Have.

All Gold And Silver Rather Turn To Dirt, An 'tis No Better Reckoned But Of These Who Worship Dirty Gods.

The Rest, Is Silence.