Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than War.

Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.

But who is this, what thing of sea or land,- Female of sex it seems,- That so bedeck'd, ornate, and gay, Comes this way sailing Like a stately ship Of Tarsus, bound for th' isles Of Javan or Gadire, With all her bravery on, and tackle trim, Sails fill'd, and streamers waving, Courted by all the winds that hold them play, An amber scent of odorous perfume Her harbinger?

Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss

The great Emathian conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground.

Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss.

Loneliness is the first thing which God's eye named not good.