Death Grinn'd horrible a ghastly smile, to hear His famine should be fill'd.

It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.

The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven.

Nothing profits more than self-esteem, grounded on what is just and right.

The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.

How gladly would I meet mortality, my sentence, and be earth in sensible! How glad would lay me down, as in my mother's lap! There I should rest, and sleep secure.

Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.