Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
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.
Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.
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.