All Places Are Alike, And Every Earth

Till Swollen With Cunning, Of A Self-conceit, His Waxen Wings Did Mount Above His Reach, And, Melting, Heavens Conspir'd His Overthrow.

It Is A Comfort To The Miserable To Have Comrades In Misfortune, But It Is A Poor Comfort After All.

The Stars Move Still, Time Runs, The Clock Will Strike

What Feeds Me Destroys Me.

Hell Strives With Grace For Conquest In My Breast. What Shall I Do To Shun The Snares Of Death?