How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence through the empty-vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness till it smiled!

Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.

Reason also is choice.

And yet on the other hand unless warinesse be us'd, as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book; who kills a Man kills a reasonable creature, Gods Image, but hee who destroyes a good Booke, kills reason it selfe, kills the Image of God, as it were in the eye.

Now I see Peace to corrupt no less than war to waste.

Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul And lap it in Elysium.

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