He 's gone, and who knows how he may report Thy words by adding fuel to the flame?

Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.

Tower'd cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.

Wisdom's self oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, where with her best nurse Contemplation, she plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings that in the various bustle of resort were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.

The great Emathian conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground.

What better can we do than prostrate fall before Him reverent, and there confess humbly our faults, and pardon beg with tears watering the ground?

Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.