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.

Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.

Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.

Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.

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

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

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