With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.

O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse Without all hope of day!

Socrates... Whom well inspir'd the oracle pronounc'd Wisest of men.

Love Virtue, she alone is free, She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the sphery chime; Or, if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

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

Here the great art lies, to discern in what the law is to be to restraint and punishment, and in what things persuasion only is to work.

Few sometimes may know, when thousands err.