Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn, on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.

And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.

All is not lost, the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield.

[Rhyme is] but the invention of a barbarous age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meter; ... Not without cause therefore some both Italian and Spanish poets of prime note have rejected rhyme, ... as have also long since our best English tragedies, as... trivial and of no true musical delight; which [truly] consists only in apt numbers, fit quantity of syllables, and the sense variously drawn out from one verse into another, not in the jingling sound of like endings, a fault avoided by the learned ancients both in poetry and all good oratory.

The martyrs shook the powers of darkness with the irresistible power of weakness.

They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet Quaff immortality and joy.

Must I thus leave thee, Paradise?-thus leave Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades?