License they mean when they cry Liberty; For who loves that, must first be wise and good.

Ink is the blood of the printing-press.

Beauty stands In the admiration only of weak minds Led captive.

Her virtue and the conscience of her worth, That would be woo'd, and not unsought be won.

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

A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses

Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit/Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste/Brought death into the world, and all our woe,/With loss of Eden, till one greater Man/Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,/Sing heavenly muse