His rod revers'd, And backward mutters of dissevering power.
That power Which erring men call Chance.
So he with difficulty and labour hard Mov'd on, with difficulty and labour he.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn.
Who can in reason then or right assume monarchy over such as live by right his equals, if in power or splendor less, in freedom equal?
From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.