Lawless are they that make their wills their law.

Our wills and fates do so contrary runThat our devices still are overthrown;Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.

The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept

So may the outward shows be least themselves:
The world is still deceived with ornament.
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt,
But, being seasoned with a gracious voice,
Obscures the show of evil? In religion,
What damned error, but some sober brow
Will bless it and approve it with a text,
Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?
There is no vice so simple but assumes
Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.

It's a lawless area,

I have a band called Sons of the Lawless.