To Show An Unfelt Sorrow Is An

Our Enemies Are Our Outward Consciences.

The Hand That Hath Made You Fair Hath Made You Good. Pity Is The Virtue Of The Law, And None But Tyrants Use It Cruelly.

O Heresy In Fair, Fit For These Days, A Giving Hand, Though Foul, Shall Have Fair Praise.

Hung Be The Heavens With Black! Yield, Day, To Night!

Nor Stony Tower, Nor Walls Of Beaten Brass, Nor Airless Dungeon, Nor Strong Links Of Iron, Can Be Retentive To The Strength Of Spirit; But Life, Being Weary Of These Worldly Bars, Never Lacks Power To Dismiss Itself.