O Conscience, Into What Abyss Of Fears

To-morrow To Fresh Woods, And Pastures New.

Where Eldest Night And Chaos, Ancestors Of Nature, Hold Eternal Anarchy Amidst The Noise Of Endless Wars, And By Confusion Stand; For Hot, Cold, Moist, And Dry, Four Champions Fierce, Strive Here For Mast'ry.

For To Interpose A Little Ease, Let Our Frail Thoughts Dally With False Surmise.

Solitude Is Sometimes The Best Society.

Incens'd With Indignation Satan Stood Unterrify'd, And Like A Comet Burn'd That Fires The Length Of Ophiuchus Huge In Th' Arctic Sky, And From His Horrid Hair Shakes Pestilence And War.