Only this I know, That one celestial father gives to all.

Ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize.

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?

By this time, like one who had set out on his way by night, and travelled through a region of smooth or idle dreams, our history now arrives on the confines, where daylight and truth meet us with a clear dawn, representing to our view, though at a far distance, true colours and shapes.

Virtue hath no tongue to check vice's pride.

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

To be blind is not miserable; not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.