Goodness Thinks No Ill Where No Ill

It Is Not Virtue, Wisdom, Valour, Wit, Strength, Comeliness Of Shape, Or Amplest Merit, That Woman's Love Can Win, Or Long Inherit; But What It Is, Hard Is To Say, Harder To Hit.

Never Can True Reconcilement Grow Where Wounds Of Deadly Hate Have Pierced So Deep.

O Fleeting Joys Of Paradise, Dear Bought With Lasting Woes!

Among The Writers Of All Ages, Some Deserve Fame, And Have It; Others Neither Have Nor Deserve It; Some Have It, Not Deserving It; Others, Though Deserving It, Yet Totally Miss It, Or Have It Not Equal To Their Deserts.

The Angel Ended, And In Adam's Ear So Charming Left His Voice, That He Awhile Thought Him Still Speaking, Still Stood Fix'd To Hear.