Thou Canst Not Touch The Freedom Of

On A Sudden Open Fly With Impetuous Recoil And Jarring Sound Th' Infernal Doors, And On Their Hinges Grate Harsh Thunder.

Our Country Is Where Ever We Are Well Off.

A Dungeon Horrible, On All Sides Round, As One Great Furnace, Flamed; Yet From Those Flames No Light, But Rather Darkness Visible Serv'd Only To Discover Sights Of Woe, Regions Of Sorrow, Doleful Shades, Where Peace And Rest Can Never Dwell, Hope Never Comes That Comes To All; But Torture Without End.

Hell Has No Benefits, Only Torture.

Was I Deceiv'd, Or Did A Sable Cloud Turn Forth Her Silver Lining On The Night?