They Who Have Put Out The People's

They Eat, They Drink, And In Communion Sweet Quaff Immortality And Joy.

Thoughts That Voluntary Move Harmonious Numbers.

And That Must End Us, That Must Be Our Cure: To Be No More. Sad Cure! For Who Would Lose, Though Full Of Pain, This Intellectual Being, Those Thoughts That Wander Through Eternity, To Perish, Rather, Swallowed Up And Lost In The Wide Womb Of Uncreated Night Devoid Of Sense And Motion?

The Strongest And The Fiercest Spirit That Fought In Heaven, Now Fiercer By Despair.

Implied Subjection, But Requir'd With Gentle Sway, And By Her Yielded, By Him Best Receiv'd,- Yielded With Coy Submission, Modest Pride, And Sweet, Reluctant, Amorous Delay.