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

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.

That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.