We are never like angels till our passion dies.

Sure there are poets which did never dream Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream Of Helicon; we therefore may suppose Those made not poets, but the poets those.

We are never like angels till our passion dies.

Search not to find things too deeply hid; Nor try to know things whose knowledge is forbid.

Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few, but such as cannot write, translate.

You prove but too clearly that seeking to know Is too frequently learning to doubt.

Who fears not to do ill fears the name, And free from conscience, is a slave to fame.