Heaven is for thee too high To know what passes there; be lowly wise. Think only what concerns thee and thy being; Dream not of other worlds, what creatures there Live, in what state, condition, or degree, Contented that thus far hath been revealed.
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
Who shall silence all the airs and madrigals that whisper softness in chambers?
Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.
Virtue that wavers is not virtue.
Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks and rivers wide Towers and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes.