He Who Destroys A Good Book Kills

Innumerable As The Stars Of Night, Or Stars Of Morning, Dewdrops Which The Sun Impearls On Every Leaf And Every Flower.

Hell Has No Benefits, Only Torture.

Th'invention All Admir'd, And Each, How He To Be Th'inventor Miss'd; So Easy It Seem'd Once Found, Which Yet Unfound Most Would Have Thought Impossible.

Part Of My Soul I Seek Thee, And Claim Thee My Other Half

His Sleep Was Aery Light, From Pure Digestion Bred.