Rocks Whereon Greatest Men Have Oftest Wreck'd.

Man Hath His Daily Work Of Body Or Mind Appointed.

The Mountain Nymph, Sweet Liberty.

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

But Say That Death Be Not One Stroke, As I Supposed, Bereaving Sense, But Endless Misery From This Day Onward, Which I Feel Begun Both In Me, And Without Me, And So Last To Perpetuity; Ay Me, That Fear Comes Thund'ring Back With Dreadful Revolution On My Defenceless Head; Both Death And I Am Found Eternal, And Incorporate Both, Nor I On My Part Single, In Me All Paradise Lost Posterity Stands Cursed: Fair Patrimony That I Must Leave Ye, Sons; O Were I Able To Waste It All Myself, And Leave Ye None!

And The Earth Self-balanced On Her Centre Hung.