God Made Thee Perfect, Not Immutable.

O Fleeting Joys Of Paradise, Dear Bought With Lasting Woes!

Which Way I Fly Is Hell; Myself Am Hell.

My Sentence Is For Open War.

Wild Above Rule Or Art, Enormous Bliss.

By This Time, Like One Who Had Set Out On His Way By Night, And Travelled Through A Region Of Smooth Or Idle Dreams, Our History Now Arrives On The Confines, Where Daylight And Truth Meet Us With A Clear Dawn, Representing To Our View, Though At A Far Distance, True Colours And Shapes.