Let none admire that riches grow in hell; that soil may best deserve the precious bane.

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

So shall the world go on, To good malignant, to bad men benign, Under her own weight groaning.

Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind.

For neither man nor angel can discern hypocrisy, the only evil that walks invisible, except to God alone.

Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn, on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.

Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn.