It Is Not Virtue, Wisdom, Valour, Wit,

Anarchy Is The Sure Consequence Of Tyranny; For No Power That Is Not Limited By Laws Can Ever Be Protected By Them.

Give Me The Liberty To Know, To Utter, And To Argue Freely According To Conscience, Above All Liberties.

Lethe, The River Of Oblivion, Rolls His Watery Labyrinth, Which Whoso Drinks Forgets Both Joy And Grief.

Virtue Could See To Do What Virtue Would By Her Own Radiant Light, Though Sun And Moon Were In The Flat Sea Sunk. And Wisdom's Self Oft Seeks To Sweet Retired Solitude, Where With Her Best Nurse Contemplation She Plumes Her Feathers And Lets Grow Her Wings, That In The Various Bustle Of Resort Were All-to Ruffled, And Sometimes Impair'd. He That Has Light Within His Own Clear Breast May Sit I' Th' Centre And Enjoy Bright Day; But He That Hides A Dark Soul And Foul Thoughts Benighted Walks Under The Midday Sun.

O Dark, Dark, Dark, Amid The Blaze Of Noon, Irrecoverably Dark, Total Eclipse Without All Hope Of Day!