If it come to prohibiting, there is aught more likely to be prohibited than truth itself.

How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence through the empty-vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness till it smiled!

Him that yon soars on golden wing, guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne, the Cherub Contemplation.

Virtue could see to do what Virtue would by her own radiant light, though sun and moon where in the flat sea sunk.

Implied Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd,- Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.

Heaven open'd wide Her ever during gates, harmonious sound, On golden hinges moving.

The brazen throat of war.