Fame Is The Spur That The Clear

Farewell Happy Fields, Where Joy Forever Dwells: Hail, Horrors, Hail.

Wherefore Did Nature Pour Her Bounties Forth With Such A Full And Unwithdrawing Hand, Covering The Earth With Odours, Fruits, Flocks, Thronging The Seas With Spawn Innumerable, But All To Please And Sate The Curious Taste?

That Virtue Therefore Which Is But A Youngling In The Contemplation Of Evil, And Knows Not The Utmost That Vice Promises To Her Followers, And Rejects It, Is But A Blank Virtue, Not A Pure; Her Whiteness Is But An Excremental Whiteness.

Immediate Are The Acts Of God, More Swift Than Time Or Motion.

Peace Hath Her Victories, No Less Renowned Than War.