Vengeance Is In My Heart, Death In

Better Three Hours Too Soon Than A Minute Too Late.

How Many Things By Season Seasoned Are To Their Right Praise And True Perfection!

Weary With Toil, I Haste Me To My Bed The Dear Repose For Limbs With Travel Tired; But Then Begins A Journey In My Head To Work My Mind, When Body's Work's Expir'd: For Then My Thoughts-from Far Where I Abide- Intend A Zealous Pilgrimage To Thee, And Keep My Drooping Eyelids Open Wide, Looking On Darkness Which The Blind Do See: Save That My Soul's Imaginary Sight Presents Thy Shadow To My Sightless View, Which, Like A Jewel Hung In Ghastly Night, Makes Black Night Beauteous And Her Old Face New. Lo! Thus, By Day My Limbs, By Night My Mind, For Thee, And For Myself No Quiet Find.

But What's So Blessed-fair That Fears No Blot? Thou Mayst Be False, And Yet I Know It Not.

The Eye Sees All, But The Mind Shows Us What We Want To See.