And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.
Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss.
Our torments also may in length of time Become our elements, these piercing fires As soft as now severe, our temper changed Into their temper.
Beauty stands In the admiration only of weak minds Led captive.
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise. That last infirmity of noble mind. To scorn delights, and live laborious days.