The pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).

Hear all ye angels, progeny of light, Thrones, dominations, princedoms, virtues, powers.

And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.

I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat.

Men of most renowned virtue have sometimes by transgressing most truly kept the law.

He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.

Arms on armour clashing bray'd Horrible discord, and the madding wheels Of brazen chariots rag'd: dire was the noise Of conflict.