Nor aught availed him now to have built in heaven high towers; nor did he scrape by all his engines, but was headlong sent with his industrious crew to build in hell.
Laws can discover sin, but not remove it
With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.
Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
Farewell happy fields, Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.
By labor and intent study (which I take to be my portion in this life), joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might perhaps leave something so written to after-times, as they should not willingly let it die.