Praise From An Enemy Smells Of Craft.

These Are Thy Glorious Works, Parent Of Good!

Virtue That Wavers Is Not Virtue.

Back To Thy Punishment, False Fugitive, And To Thy Speed Add Wings.

For What Can War, But Endless War, Still Breed?

The Earth, Though In Comparison Of Heaven So Small, Nor Glistering, May Of Solid Good Contain More Plenty Than The Sun, That Barren Shines.