To-morrow To Fresh Woods, And Pastures New.

We Should Be Wary What Persecution We Raise Against The Living Labors Of Public Men, How We Spill That Seasoned Life Of Man, Preserved And Stored Up In Books, Since We See A Kind Of Homicide May Be Thus Committed, Sometimes A Martyrdom; And If It Extend To The Whole Impression, A Kind Of Massacre, Whereof The Execution Ends Not In The Slaying Of An Elemental Life, But Strikes At The Ethereal And Fifth Essence, The Breath Of Reason Itself; Slays An Immortality Rather Than A Life.

Heaven, The Seat Of Bliss, Brooks Not The Works Of Violence And War.

He Left It In Thy Power, Ordaind Thy Will By Nature Free, Not Over-rul'd By Fate Inextricable, Or Strict Necessity.

He Scarce Had Ceased When The Superior Fiend Was Moving Toward The Shore; His Ponderous Shield Ethereal Temper, Massy, Large And Round, Behind Him Cast; The Broad Circumference Hung On His Shoulders Like The Moon, Whose Orb Through Optic Glass The Tuscan Artist Views At Evening From The Top Of Fésolè, Or In Valdarno, To Descry New Lands, Rivers Or Mountains In Her Spotty Globe.

I Did But Prompt The Age To Quit Their Clogs By The Known Rules Of Ancient Liberty, When Straight A Barbarous Noise Environs Me Of Owls And Cuckoos, Asses, Apes And Dogs.