Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades High over-arch'd imbower.
Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.
The timely dew of sleep.
But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
Take heed lest passion sway Thy judgement to do aught, which else free will Would not admit.