And keeps the palace of the soul.
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.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.