Sweet Babe, In Thy Face Soft Desires

Prisons Are Built With Stones Of Law. Brothels With The Bricks Of Religion.

My Silks And Fine Array, My Smiles And Languished Air, By Love Are Driv'n Away And Mournful Lean Despair Brings Me Yew To Deck My Grave: Such End True Lovers Have.

Some Will Say, Is Not God Alone The Prolific? I Answer, God Only Acts & Is, In Existing Beings Or Men.

I Will Not Cease From Mental Fight Nor Shall My Sword Sleep In My Hand.

My Mother Bore Me In The Southern Wild, And I Am Black, But O! My Soul Is White; White As An Angel Is The English Child, But I Am Black As If Bereaved Of Light.