When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.
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.
All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.