Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

And keeps the palace of the soul.

What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?

The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.

All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.

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.

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