He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.
My mother groaned, my father wept, into the dangerous world I leapt.
Every thing possible to be believ'd is an image of truth.
How can a bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing?
The hand of Vengeance found the Bed To which the Purple Tyrant fled The iron hand crush'd the tyrant's head And became Tyrant in his stead.
All futurity seems teeming with endless destruction never to be repelled; Desperate remorse swallows the present in a quenchless rage.