To Be In Love, Where Scorn Is

What's Done Is Done. The Joy Is In The Doing.

You Common Cry Of Curs! Whose Breath I Hate As Reek O' The Rotten Fens, Whose Loves I Prize As The Dead Carcasses Of Unburied Men That Do Corrupt My Air, I Banish You; And Here Remain With Your Uncertainty!

This Making Of Christians Will Raise The Price Of Hogs.

My Will Enkindled By Mine Eyes And Ears, Two Traded Pilots 'twixt The Dangerous Shores Of Will And Judgment.

Piece Out Our Imperfections With Your Thoughts.