I fled, and cry'd out, Death; Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sigh'd From all her caves, and back resounded, Death.

He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.

Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss.

Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.

O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.

Now morn, her rosy steps in th' eastern clime Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl, When Adam wak'd, so custom'd; for his sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.

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