Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead; For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
Astrologers that future fates foreshow.
He who serves his brother best gets nearer God than all the rest.
Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature's God.
Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, content to dwell in decencies for ever.
And die of nothing but a rage to live.