A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.
Ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize.
Goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seems.
First Moloch, horrid king, besmirched in blood, Of Human sacrifice, and parent's tears, Though, for the noise of drums and timbrels loud, Their childrens' cries unheard, that passed through fire, To his grim idol.
Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.