Tower'd Cities Please Us Then, And The

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?

Beauty Stands In The Admiration Only Of Weak Minds Led Captive.

In Physic, Things Of Melancholic Hue And Quality Are Used Against Melancholy, Sour Against Sour, Salt To Remove Salt Humors.

Only This I Know, That One Celestial Father Gives To All.

Or If Virtue Feeble Were, Heav'n Itself Would Stoop To Her.