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

Yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible.

Nor turned I ween Adam from his fair spouse, nor Eve the rites Mysterious of connubial love refused: Whatever hypocrites austerely talk Of purity and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to some, leaves free to all.

There is no Christian duty that is not to be seasoned and set off with cheerishness, which in a thousand outward and intermitting crosses may yet be done well, as in this vale of tears.

I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend.

Methought I saw my late espoused saint.

Nor jealousy Was understood, the injur'd lover's hell.