Or If Virtue Feeble Were, Heav'n Itself

Hail, Wedded Love, Mysterious Law; True Source Of Human Happiness.

Say, Heavenly Pow'rs, Where Shall We Find Such Love? Which Of Ye Will Be Mortal To Redeem Man's Mortal Crime, And Just Th' Unjust To Save.

The Hungry Sheep Look Up, And Are Not Fed.

Let None Admire That Riches Grow In Hell; That Soil May Best Deserve The Precious Bane.

Thick As Autumnal Leaves That Strow The Brooks In Vallombrosa, Where Th' Etrurian Shades High Over-arch'd Imbower.