Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward.
Our reason is our law.
Tower'd cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.
Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
Sweet bird, that shun the noise of folly, most musical, most melancholy!
Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.