When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.

Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.

The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.

Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.

Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.

So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.

And keeps the palace of the soul.