Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.

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.

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.

With wisdom fraught; not such as books, but such as practice taught.

The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.

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