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

Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks and rivers wide Towers and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes.

That power Which erring men call Chance.

Suffering for truth's sake Is fortitude to highest victory, And to the faithful death the gate of life.

The never-ending flight Of future days.

Smiles from reason flow, To brute deny'd, and are of love the food.

One sip of this will bathe the drooping spirits in delight, beyond the bliss of dreams.