Nothing profits more than self-esteem, grounded on what is just and right.

Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades High over-arch'd imbower.

Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.

Midnight shout and revelry, Tipsy dance and jollity.

Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls his watery labyrinth, which whoso drinks forgets both joy and grief.

Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.

Death ready stands to interpose his dart.