Make Me Immortal With A Kiss.

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

Is It Not Passing Brave To Be A King And Ride In Triumph Through Persepolis?

O, Thou Art Fairer Than The Evening Air Clad In The Beauty Of A Thousand Stars.

He That Loves Pleasure Must For Pleasure Fall.

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.