As peace is of all goodness, so war is an emblem, a hieroglyphic, of all misery.
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
If poisonous minerals, and if that tree, Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damned; alas; why should I be?
Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?
Thy face is mine eye, and mine is thine.