Behold now this vast city [London]; a city of refuge, the mansion-house of liberty, encompassed and surrounded with His protection.

Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child!

He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.

But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began.

Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame,-nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.

And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.

Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, in every gesture dignity and love.