Ink Is The Blood Of The Printing-press.

These Are Thy Glorious Works Parent Of Good, Almighty, Thine This Universal Frame, Thus Wondrous Fair; Thy Self How Wondrous Then! Unspeakable, Who Sitst Above These Heavens To Us Invisible Or Dimly Seen In These Thy Lowest Works, Yet These Declare Thy Goodness Beyond Thought, And Power Divine: Speak Ye Who Best Can Tell, Ye Sons Of Light, Angels, For Ye Behold Him, And With Songs And Choral Symphonies, Day Without Night, Circle His Throne Rejoicing, Ye In Heav'n, On Earth Join All Ye Creatures To Extoll Him First, Him Last, Him Midst, And Without End.

The Mountain Nymph, Sweet Liberty.

Who Overcomes By Force, Hath Overcome But Half His Foe.

And Storied Windows Richly Dight, Casting A Dim Religious Light. There Let The Pealing Organ Blow, To The Full-voiced Choir Below, In Service High, And Anthems Clear As May, With Sweetness, Through Mine Ear Dissolve Me Into Ecstasies, And Bring All Heaven Before Mine Eyes.

Fame Is The Spur That The Clear Spirit Doth Raise. That Last Infirmity Of Noble Mind. To Scorn Delights, And Live Laborious Days.