The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

A bevy of fair women.

And, re-assembling our afflicted powers, consult how we may henceforth most offend.

And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons.

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.

Thou art my father, thou my author, thou my being gav'st me; whom should I obey but thee, whom follow?

Tears such as angels weep.