Sable-vested Night, eldest of things.

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

Was I deceiv'd, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night?

Innumerable as the stars of night, Or stars of morning, dewdrops which the sun Impearls on every leaf and every flower.

Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.

For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.

Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.