Live while ye may, Yet happy pair.

Good, the more communicated, more abundant grows.

License they mean when they cry Liberty; For who loves that, must first be wise and good.

A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the landscape round it measures, Russet lawns and fallows grey, Where the nibbling flocks do stray, Mountains on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.

But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.

Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy.