I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.

There is no real wealth but the labour of man.

Jesus Christ opposed with earnest eloquence the panic fears and hateful superstitions which have enslaved mankind for ages.

January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps -- but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.

History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number- Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you Ye are many-they are few.