Morn, Wak'd by the circling hours, with rosy hand Unbarr'd the gates of light.

And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens take his pleasure.

Here the great art lies, to discern in what the law is to be to restraint and punishment, and in what things persuasion only is to work.

More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchang'd To hoarse or mute, though fall'n on evil days, On evil days though fall'n, and evil tongues.

A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, As one great furnace, flamed; yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all; but torture without end.

Mammon, the least erected spirit that fell >From heaven; for ev'n in heaven his looks and thoughts Were always downward bent, admiring more The riches of heaven's pavement, trodden gold, Than aught divine or holy else enjoy'd In vision beatific.

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.