Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power, After offence returning, to regain Love once possess'd.

And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps At wisdom's gate, and to simplicity Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seems.

Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.

To adore the conqueror, who now beholds Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood.

Praise from an enemy smells of craft.

So dear to heav'n is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.

Imparadis'd in one another's arms.