For What Is Glory But The Blaze

Who, As They Sung, Would Take The Prison'd Soul And Lap It In Elysium.

The Redundant Locks, Robustious To No Purpose, Clustering Down--vast Monument Of Strength.

And, When Night Darkens The Streets, Then Wander Forth The Sons Of Belial, Flown With Insolence And Wine.

So Dear To Heav'n Is Saintly Chastity, That When A Soul Is Found Sincerely So, A Thousand Liveried Angels Lackey Her, Driving Far Off Each Thing Of Sin And Guilt, And In Clear Dream And Solemn Vision Tell Her Of Things That No Gross Ear Can Hear, Till Oft Converse With Heav'nly Habitants Begin To Cast A Beam On Th' Outward Shape.

Biochemically, Love Is Just Like Eating Large Amounts Of Chocolate.