Tower'd cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.

What call thou solitude? Is not the earth with various living creatures, and the air replenished, and all these at thy command to come and play before thee?

Luck is the residue of design.

Heaven open'd wide Her ever during gates, harmonious sound, On golden hinges moving.

In argument with men a woman ever Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.

Truth is compared in Scripture to a streaming fountain; if her waters flow not in perpetual progression, they sicken into a muddy pool of conformity and tradition.

Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.