Chaos umpire sits And by decision more embroils the fray by which he reigns: next him high arbiter Chance governs all.

Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to men; Unless there be who think not God at all.

Evil on itself shall back recoil.

Thence to the famous orators repair, Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce democratie, Shook the arsenal, and fulmin'd over Greece, To Macedon, and Artaxerxes' throne.

Our state cannot be severed, we are one, One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.

[Rhyme is] but the invention of a barbarous age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meter; ... Not without cause therefore some both Italian and Spanish poets of prime note have rejected rhyme, ... as have also long since our best English tragedies, as... trivial and of no true musical delight; which [truly] consists only in apt numbers, fit quantity of syllables, and the sense variously drawn out from one verse into another, not in the jingling sound of like endings, a fault avoided by the learned ancients both in poetry and all good oratory.

Our torments also may in length of time Become our Elements.