All hope is lost of my reception into grace; what worse? For where no hope is left, is left no fear.
Accuse not nature: she hath done her part; Do thou but thine.
Hail holy light, offspring of heav'n firstborn!
Evil, be thou my good.
The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.
And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.