The Tree of Knowledge grew fast by, Knowledge of Good bought dear by knowing ill.

Herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.

A crown Golden in show, is but a wreath of thorns, Bring dangers, troubles, cares, and sleepless nights To him who wears the regal diadem

The never-ending flight Of future days.

Hence, loathèd Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy.

His form had yet not lost All her original brightness, nor appear'd Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess Of glory obscur'd.

This horror will grow mild, this darkness light.