To live a life half dead, a living death.

Where eldest Night And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold Eternal anarchy amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand; For hot, cold, moist, and dry, four champions fierce, Strive here for mast'ry.

In naked beauty most adorned.

Ink is the blood of the printing-press.

Virtue that wavers is not virtue.

The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven.

What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?