Here Am I, Dying Of A Hundred

Heaven Forming Each On Other To Depend, A Master, Or A Servant, Or A Friend, Bids Each On Other For Assistance Call, Till One Man's Weakness Grows The Strength Of All.

Intestine War No More Our Passions Wage, And Giddy Factions Bear Away Their Rage.

To Happy Convents, Bosomed Deep In Vines, Where Slumber Abbots, Purple As Their Wines.

And Die Of Nothing But A Rage To Live.

Wit Is The Lowest Form Of Humor.