God Is Thy Law, Thou Mine: To

If It Come To Prohibiting, There Is Aught More Likely To Be Prohibited Than Truth Itself.

He Scarce Had Ceased When The Superior Fiend Was Moving Toward The Shore; His Ponderous Shield Ethereal Temper, Massy, Large And Round, Behind Him Cast; The Broad Circumference Hung On His Shoulders Like The Moon, Whose Orb Through Optic Glass The Tuscan Artist Views At Evening From The Top Of Fésolè, Or In Valdarno, To Descry New Lands, Rivers Or Mountains In Her Spotty Globe.

His Words, Like So Many Nimble And Airy Servitors, Trip About Him At Command. Ibid.

Fame Is No Plant That Grows On Mortal Soil.

A Shout That Tore Hell's Concave, And Beyond / Frightened The Reign Of Chaos And Old Night.