Praise from an enemy smells of craft.
License they mean when they cry Liberty; For who loves that, must first be wise and good.
I fled, and cry'd out, Death; Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sigh'd From all her caves, and back resounded, Death.
The spirit of man, which God inspired, cannot together perish with this corporeal clod.
Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
He 's gone, and who knows how he may report Thy words by adding fuel to the flame?