Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.

Courtesy which oft is found in lowly sheds, with smoky rafters, than in tapestry halls and courts of princes, where it first was named.

Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.

Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell.

The Tree of Knowledge grew fast by, Knowledge of Good bought dear by knowing ill.

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.

What is dark within me, illumine.