I went to the Garden of Love, And saw what I never had seen: A Chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green. And the gates of this Chapel were shut, And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door; So I turn'd to the Garden of Love, That so many sweet flowers bore. And I saw it was filled with graves, And tomb-stones where flowers should be: And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds, And binding with briars, my joys & desires.

Prudence is a rich, ugly, old maid courted by incapacity.

Nothing can be more contemptible than to suppose Public Records to be true.

Every harlot was a virgin once.

If you, who are organised by Divine Providence for spiritual communion, refuse, and bury your talent in the earth, even though you should want natural bread, sorrow and desperation pursue you through life, and after death shame and confusion of face to eternity.

God is the poetic genius in each of us.

Children of the future age Reading this indignant page Know that in a former time Love, sweet love, was thought a crime