Goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seems.

And, when night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.

Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round

Most men admire Virtue who follow not her lore.

Ease would recant Vows made in pain, as violent and void.

The pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).

Iris all hues, roses, and jessamine Reared high their flourished heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the violet, Crocus, and hyacinth with rich inlay Broidered the ground, more coloured than with stone Of costliest emblem: other creature here Beast, bird, insect, or worm durst enter none; Such was their awe of man.