And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens take his pleasure.

Smiles from reason flow, To brute deny'd, and are of love the food.

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

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

By this time, like one who had set out on his way by night, and travelled through a region of smooth or idle dreams, our history now arrives on the confines, where daylight and truth meet us with a clear dawn, representing to our view, though at a far distance, true colours and shapes.

Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.

Lords are lordliest in their wine.