Heaven, the seat of bliss, Brooks not the works of violence and war.
Not to know me argues yourselves unknown.
Praise from an enemy smells of craft.
Pandemonium, the high capital Of Satan and his peers.
Farewell happy fields, Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.
Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them....I know they are as lively and as vigorously productive as those fabulous dragon's teeth and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men.