I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear. How the Chimney-sweeper's cry Every black'ning Church appalls; And the hapless Soldier's sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls. But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlot's curse Blasts the new born Infant's tear, And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? How can a child, when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring?

God is the poetic genius in each of us.

Men are admitted into heaven not because they have curbed or governed their passions, but because they have cultivate their understandings.

A tyrant is the worst disease, and the cause of all others.

He who loves his enemies betrays his friends; this surely is not what Jesus meant.

The most sublime act is to set another before you.