There are no songs comparable to the songs of Zion, no orations equal to those of the prophets, and no politics like those which the Scriptures teach.
Those whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
Farewell happy fields, Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.
Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power, After offence returning, to regain Love once possess'd.
The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven.