How Soon Hath Time, The

You Can Make Hell Out Of Heaven And Heaven Out Of Hell. It's All In The Mind.

I Hate When Vice Can Bolt Her Arguments, And Virtue Has No Tongue To Check Her Pride.

To Overcome In Battle, And Subdue Nations, And Bring Home Spoils With Infinite Man-slaughter, Shall Be Held The Highest Pitch Of Human Glory.

This Horror Will Grow Mild, This Darkness Light.

The Timely Dew Of Sleep Now Falling With Soft Slumb'rous Weight Inclines Our Eyelids.