Few sometimes may know, when thousands err.
O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death.
Herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.
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.
Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.
Solitude is sometimes the best society.