Goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seems.
None can love freedom heartily, but good men; the rest love not freedom, but license.
All hope is lost of my reception into grace; what worse? For where no hope is left, is left no fear.
And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.
Was I deceiv'd, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night?
The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.