Dark With Excessive Bright.

He Who Destroys A Good Book Kills Reason Itself.

Nor Love Thy Life, Nor Hate; But What Thou Livest, Live Well; How Long, Or Short, Permit To Heaven.

Bid Amaranthus All His Beauty Shed, And Daffodillies Fill Their Cups With Tears, To Strew The Laureate To Hearse When Lycid Lies.

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.

The Conquer'd, Also, And Enslaved By War, Shall, With Their Freedom Lost, All Virtue Lose.