The Devil Hath Power To Assume A

We Make Trifles Of Terrors, Ensconcing Ourselves Into Seeming Knowledge, When We Should Submit Ourselves To An Unknown Fear.

Here Feel We But The Penalty Of Adam, The Seasons' Difference, As The Icy Fang And Churlish Chiding Of The Winter's Wind, Which, When It Bites And Blows Upon My Body, Even Till I Shrink With Cold, I Smile.

Dream On, Dream On, Of Bloody Deeds And Death.

Were't Not For Laughing, I Should Pity Him.

The Gallantry Of His Grief Did Put Me Into A Towering Passion.