Freely we serve, because freely we love.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?
Heaven open'd wide Her ever during gates, harmonious sound, On golden hinges moving.
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.
And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens take his pleasure.
Nor turned I ween Adam from his fair spouse, nor Eve the rites Mysterious of connubial love refused: Whatever hypocrites austerely talk Of purity and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to some, leaves free to all.