This is servitude, To serve the unwise.

Virtue could see to do what Virtue would by her own radiant light, though sun and moon where in the flat sea sunk.

Herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.

A good principle not rightly understood may prove as hurtful as a bad.

Pandemonium, the high capital Of Satan and his peers.

The gay motes that people the sunbeams.

And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?