And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.

Is it true, O Christ in heaven, that the highest suffer the most? That the strongest wander furthest and most hopelessly are lost? That the mark of rank in nature is capacity for pain? That the anguish of the singer makes the sweetness of the strain?

God is thy law, thou mine: to know no more Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. With thee conversing I forget all time.

Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heav'n.

Be strong, live happy and love, but first of all Him whom to love is to obey, and keep His great command!

In God's intention, a meet and happy conversation is the chiefest and noblest end of marriage.

Yet hold it more humane, more heav'nly, first, By winning words to conquer willing hearts, And make persuasion do the work of fear.