These evils I deserve, and more . . . . Justly, yet despair not of his final pardon, Whose ear is ever open, and his eye Gracious to re-admit the suppliant.

Heaven, the seat of bliss, Brooks not the works of violence and war.

Let us descend now therefore from this top Of speculation.

Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?

Yet hold it more humane, more heav'nly, first, By winning words to conquer willing hearts, And make persuasion do the work of fear.

Hope allows us to bid farewell to fear.

And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.