Or if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.

Suffering for truth's sake Is fortitude to highest victory, And to the faithful death the gate of life.

Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.

how wearisom Eternity so spent in worship paid To whom we hate. Let us not then pursue By force impossible, by leave obtain'd Unacceptable, though in Heav'n, our state Of splendid vassalage, but rather seek Our own good from our selves, and from our own Live to our selves, though in this vast recess, Free, and to none accountable, preferring Hard liberty before the easie yoke Of servile Pomp

It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark.

Smiles from reason flow, To brute deny'd, and are of love the food.