Joy And Woe Are Woven Fine.

I Must Create A System Or Be Enslaved By Another Mans; I Will Not Reason And Compare: My Business Is To Create.

When The Stars Threw Down Their Spears, And Watered Heaven With Their Tears, Did He Smile His Work To See? Did He Who Made The Lamb Make Thee?

In Every Cry Of Every Man, In Every Infant's Cry Of Fear, In Every Voice, In Every Ban, The Mind-forg'd Manacles I Hear.

All Wholesome Food Is Caught Without A Net Or Trap.

Then The Parson Might Preach, & Drink, & Sing, And We'd Be As Happy As Birds In The Spring; And Modest Dame Lurch, Who Is Always At Church, Would Not Have Bandy Children, Nor Fasting, Nor Birch.