O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.
Accuse not nature: she hath done her part; Do thou but thine.
Virtue that wavers is not virtue.
The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day.
Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
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.