Naught can deform the human race Like to the armor's iron brace.

The stars are threshed, and the souls are threshed from their husks.

To the eyes of a miser a guinea is more beautiful than the sun, and a bag worn with the use of money has more beautiful proportions than a vine filled with grapes.

The Sick Rose O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

I must create a system, or be enslav'd by another man's.

Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, and not seek for kind relief?

Naught can deform the human race Like to the armor's iron brace.