Nothing Violent, Oft Have I Heard Tell,

If We Say That We Have No Sin, We Deceive Ourselves, And There's No Truth In Us. Why Then Belike We Must Sin, And So Consequently Die. Ay, We Must Die An Everlasting Death.

Love Is Not Ful Of Pittie (as Men Say) But Deaffe And Cruell, Where He Meanes To Pray.

Hell Hath No Limits, Nor Is Circumscribed In One Self Place, For Where We Are Is Hell, And Where Hell Is There Must We Ever Be.

Confess And Be Hanged.

Religion! O Diabole! Fie, I Am Asham'd, However That I Seem, To Think A Word Of Such Simple Sound, Of Such Great Matter Should Be Made The Ground.