To-morrow To Fresh Woods, And Pastures New.

I Fled, And Cry'd Out, Death; Hell Trembled At The Hideous Name, And Sigh'd From All Her Caves, And Back Resounded, Death.

To Many A Youth And Many A Maid, Dancing In The Chequer'd Shade.

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

Ease Would Recant Vows Made In Pain, As Violent And Void.

I Will Point Ye Out The Right Path Of A Virtuous And Noble Education; Laborious Indeed At First Ascent, But Else So Smooth, So Green, So Full Of Goodly Prospect, And Melodious Sounds On Every Side, That The Harp Of Orpheus Was Not More Charming.