Laws can discover sin, but not remove it

The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.

So he with difficulty and labour hard Mov'd on, with difficulty and labour he.

Rocks whereon greatest men have oftest wreck'd.

And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?

She what was honour knew, And with obsequious majesty approv'd My pleaded reason. To the nuptial bower I led her blushing like the morn; all heaven And happy constellations on that hour Shed their selectest influence; the earth Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill; Joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airs Whisper'd it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub.

Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.