Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.

Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heav'n.

So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.

Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.

They also serve who only stand and wait.

That virtue therefore which is but a youngling in the contemplation of evil, and knows not the utmost that vice promises to her followers, and rejects it, is but a blank virtue, not a pure; her whiteness is but an excremental whiteness.

From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.