Hide me from day's garish eye.

Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame,-nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.

He who destroys a good book kills reason itself.

And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?

Farewell Hope, and with Hope farewell Fear

Hard are the ways of truth, and rough to walk.

So he with difficulty and labour hard Mov'd on, with difficulty and labour he.