Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul And lap it in Elysium.
Our country is where ever we are well off.
Let none admire that riches grow in hell; that soil may best deserve the precious bane.
Son of Heav'n and Earth, Attend: that thou art happy, owe to God; That thou continuest such, owe to thyself, That is, to thy obedience; therein stand.
Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?