Heaven - The Treasury Of Everlasting Life.

Then To Silvia Let Us Sing That Silvia Is Excelling. She Excels Each Mortal Thing Upon The Dull Earth Dwelling.

But Whate'er I Am, Nor I Nor Any Man That But Man Is, With Nothing Shall Be Pleased 'til He Be Eased With Being Nothing.

Orpheus With His Lute Made Trees, And The Mountain Tops That Freeze, Bow Themselves, When He Did Sing; To His Music, Plants And Flowers Ever Sprung; As Sun And Showers There Had Made A Lasting Spring. Every Thing That Heard Him Play, Even The Billows Of The Sea, Hung Their Heads, And Then Lay By. In Sweet Music Is Such Art, Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

My Nature Is Subdued To What It Works In, Like The Dyer's Hand.

A Jest's Prosperity Lies In The Ear