Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul And lap it in Elysium.
My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!
And out of good still to find means of evil.
Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, in every gesture dignity and love.
He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.
Some say no evil thing that walks by night, In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost That breaks his magic chains at curfew time, No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity.