In naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely than Pandora.

The pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).

Love Virtue, she alone is free, She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the sphery chime; Or, if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

Hence, loathèd Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy.

Or if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.

Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.