And Tears Are Heard Within The Harp

A Short Cut To Riches Is To Subtract From Our Desires.

Those Spacious Regions Where Our Fancies Roam, Pain'd By The Past, Expecting Ills To Come, In Some Dread Moment, By The Fates Assign'd, Shall Pass Away, Nor Leave A Rack Behind; And Time's Revolving Wheels Shall Lose At Last The Speed That Spins The Future And The Past: And, Sovereign Of An Undisputed Throne, Awful Eternity Shall Reign Alone.

What Name To Call Thee By, O Virgin Fair, I Know Not, For Thy Looks Are Not Of Earth And More Than Mortal Seems Thy Countenances

I Would Have Preferred To Have Been Born In Any Other Time Than Our Own.

It May Be Only Glory That We Seek Here, But I Persuade Myself That, As Long As We Remain Here, That Is Right. Another Glory Awaits Us In Heaven And He Who Reaches There Will Not Wish Even To Think Of Earthly Fame.