We Of The Craft Are All Crazy.

The Devil Hath Not, In All His Quiver's Choice, An Arrow For The Heart Like A Sweet Voice.

Oh! Might I Kiss Those Eyes Of Fire, A Million Scarce Would Quench Desire; Still Would I Steep My Lips In Bliss, And Dwell An Age On Every Kiss; Nor Then My Soul Should Sated Be, Still Would I Kiss And Cling To Thee: Nought Should My Kiss From Thine Dissever, Still Would We Kiss And Kiss For Ever; E'en Though The Numbers Did Exceed The Yellow Harvest's Countless Seed; To Part Would Be A Vain Endeavour: Could I Desist? -ah! Never-never.

Man Marks The Earth With Ruin - His Control Stops With The Shore.

A Woman Being Never At A Loss... The Devil Always Sticks By Them.

Whatsoever Thy Birth, Thou Wert A Beautiful Thought, And Softly Bodied Forth.