He That Hath Light Within Their Own

Which Way I Fly Is Hell; Myself Am Hell.

Such Sweet Compulsion Doth In Music Lie.

O Visions Ill Foreseen! Better Had I Liv'd Ignorant Of Future, So Had Borne My Part Of Evil Only.

I See Thou Art Implacable, More Deaf To Pray'rs Than Winds And Seas. Yet Winds To Seas Are Reconcil'd At Length, And Sea To Shore: Thy Anger, Unappeasable, Still Rages Eternal Tempest Never To Be Calm'd.

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.