These are thy glorious works, Parent of good!

Nor aught availed him now to have built in heaven high towers; nor did he scrape by all his engines, but was headlong sent with his industrious crew to build in hell.

Believe and be confirmed.

Solitude is sometimes best society.

Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.

They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet Quaff immortality and joy.

It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.