Now morn, her rosy steps in th' eastern clime Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl, When Adam wak'd, so custom'd; for his sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.

Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.

Anarchy is the sure consequence of tyranny; for no power that is not limited by laws can ever be protected by them.

The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.

Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell.

Have hung My dank and dropping weeds To the stern god of sea.

So dear I love him, that with him, all deaths I could endure, without him, live no life.