For No Falsehood Can Endure Touch Of

Sweetest Echo, Sweetest Nymph, That Liv'st Unseen Within Thy Airy Shell, By Slow Meander's Margent Green, And In The Violet-embroidered Vale.

Death To Life Is Crown Or Shame.

My Heart Contains Of Good, Wise, Just, The Perfect Shape.

Who Would Not, Finding Way, Break Loose From Hell, . . . . And Boldly Venture To Whatever Place Farthest From Pain?

A Limbo Large And Broad, Since Call'd The Paradise Of Fools To Few Unknown.