Th' immortal mind of mortal man! We hear yon loud-lunged Zealot cry; Whose mind but means his sum of thought, an essence of atomic I. Thought is the work of brain and nerve, in small-skulled idiot poor and mean; In sickness sick, in sleep asleep, and dead when Death lets drop the scene.
Richard Francis Burton
sleep man work mind death
Reason and Instinct! How we love to play with words that please our pride; Our noble race's mean descent by false forged titles seek to hide! For gift divine I bid you read the better work of higher brain, From Instinct diff'ering in degree as golden mine from leaden vein.
race gifts work
They lard their lean books with the fat of others work.
work
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