To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss

There is nothing that making men rich and strong but that which they carry inside of them. True wealth is of the heart, not of the hand.

And out of good still to find means of evil.

Thence to the famous orators repair, Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce democratie, Shook the arsenal, and fulmin'd over Greece, To Macedon, and Artaxerxes' throne.

Hear all ye angels, progeny of light, Thrones, dominations, princedoms, virtues, powers.

Loneliness is the first thing which God's eye named not good.