Let us descend now therefore from this top Of speculation.

Take heed lest passion sway Thy judgement to do aught, which else free will Would not admit.

O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.

Who shall silence all the airs and madrigals that whisper softness in chambers?

The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.

I fled, and cry'd out, Death; Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sigh'd From all her caves, and back resounded, Death.

Wealth and honours, which most men pursue, easily change masters; they desert to the side which excels in virtue, industry, and endurance of toil, and they abandon the slothful.