All Places Shall Be Hell That Are

It Lies Not In Our Power To Love Or Hate, For Will In Us Is Overruled By Fate.

Love Is Not Ful Of Pittie (as Men Say) But Deaffe And Cruell, Where He Meanes To Pray.

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

Religion! O Diabole! Fie, I Am Asham'd, However That I Seem, To Think A Word Of Such Simple Sound, Of Such Great Matter Should Be Made The Ground.

Goodness Is Beauty In The Best Estate.