Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home.
All we behold is miracle.
Where thou art gone, adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
To trace in Nature's most minute design The signature and stamp of power divine. ... The Invisible in things scarce seen revealed, To whom an atom is an ample field.