Wisdom's self oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, where with her best nurse Contemplation, she plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings that in the various bustle of resort were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.

Heaven, the seat of bliss, Brooks not the works of violence and war.

The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.

The rising world of waters dark and deep.

With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.

Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.

See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds, With joy and love triumphing.