Jigging Veins Of Rhyming Mother Wits.

Our Swords Shall Play The Orators For Us.

It Is A Comfort To The Miserable To Have Comrades In Misfortune, But It Is A Poor Comfort After All.

... When All The World Dissolves, And Every Creature Shall Be Purified, All Places Shall Be Hell That Are Not Heaven.

Hell Strives With Grace For Conquest In My Breast. What Shall I Do To Shun The Snares Of Death?

Why Should You Love Him Whom The World Hates So? Because He Love Me More Than All The World.