The work under our labour grows, Luxurious by restraint.

For books are as meats and viands are; some of good, some of evil sub-stance.

Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?

In naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely than Pandora.

Hope allows us to bid farewell to fear.

Time is the subtle thief of youth.

Morn, Wak'd by the circling hours, with rosy hand Unbarr'd the gates of light.