Myself, And All The Angelic Host, That

The Mind Is Its Own Place, And In Itself, Can Make Heaven Of Hell, And A Hell Of Heaven.

As In An Organ From One Blast Of Wind To Many A Row Of Pipes The Soundboard Breathes.

Therefore, If At Great Things Thou Wouldst Arrive, Get Riches First, Get Wealth.

For Spirits When They Please Can Either Sex Assume, Or Both; So Soft And Uncompounded Is Their Essence Pure, Not Tied Or Manacled With Joint Or Limb, Nor Founded On The Brittle Strength Of Bones, Like Cumbrous Flesh; But In What Shape They Choose Dilated Or Condensed, Bright Or Obscure, Can Execute Their Airy Purposes, And Works Of Love Or Enmity Fulfil.

But Say That Death Be Not One Stroke, As I Supposed, Bereaving Sense, But Endless Misery From This Day Onward, Which I Feel Begun Both In Me, And Without Me, And So Last To Perpetuity; Ay Me, That Fear Comes Thund'ring Back With Dreadful Revolution On My Defenceless Head; Both Death And I Am Found Eternal, And Incorporate Both, Nor I On My Part Single, In Me All Paradise Lost Posterity Stands Cursed: Fair Patrimony That I Must Leave Ye, Sons; O Were I Able To Waste It All Myself, And Leave Ye None!