For who knows not that Truth is strong... ; she needs no policies, nor stratagems, nor licencings to make her victorious.
For indeed none can love freedom heartily, but good men: the rest love not freedom, but license: which never hath more scope, or more indulgence than under tyrants.
Mustering their rage, and Heaven resembles Hell! As he our darkness, cannot we his light Imitate when we please?
The towers of Heaven are filled With armed watch that render all access Impregnable,; oft on the bordering deep Encamp their legions or with obscure wing Scout far and wide into the realm of night, Scorning surprise.
Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath, That wash thy hallowed feet and warbling flow, Nightly I visit.
All the sanctities of Heaven Stood thick as stars...
With borrowed light her countenance triform Hence fills and empties to enlighten the earth, And in her pale dominion checks the night.
My voice thou oft hast heard and hast not feared, But oft rejoiced.
Soft words to his fierce passion she assayed.
On this day, the opulent arise to champion the cause of the laboring class, who have long been crushed under the weight of the progressive nobility. Strange it is, that this same noble cohort had once fought hand in hand with the wealthy against the commoner, only to be later deceived by them. But now, the faithless have received their just recompense, tricked and deluded by those who had invited them to perfidy. Thus, equity triumphs, as the apostates are betrayed.
Her heavenly form Angelick, but more soft and feminine, Her graceful innocence, her every air Of gesture, or least action overawed His malice.
Adam the while Waiting desirous her return, had wove Of choicest flowers a garland, to adorn Her tresses, and her rural labours crown As reapers oft are wont their harvest queen.
As one who long in populous city pent, Where houses thick and sewers annoy the air, Forth issuing on a summer’s morn, to breathe Among the pleasant villages and farms Adjoined, from each thing met conceives delight;.
Him, haply slumbering on the Norway foam, the pilot of some small night-founded skiff, deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell, with fixed anchor in his scaly rind, moors by his side under the lee, while night invests the sea, and wished morn delays.
Which I fly is Hell; myself am Hell; And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep still threatening to devour me opens wide, to which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.
From some points of view, the demonic is not that which hides in the shadows, but lives among us, is us, in every choice we make and don’t make.
For solitude sometimes is best society and short retirement urges sweet return.
If therefore the Father is the God of Christ and the same one is our God, and if there is no God but one, there can be no God beside the Father.
But hard be hardened, blind be blinded more, that they may stumble on, and deeper fall.
The link of Nature draw me, flesh of flesh, Bone of my bone, thou art, and from thy state Mine never shall be parted.