Such Sweet Compulsion Doth In Music Lie.

Athens, The Eye Of Greece, Mother Of Arts And Eloquence.

Into This Wild Abyss/ The Womb Of Nature, And Perhaps Her Grave--/ Of Neither Sea, Nor Shore, Nor Air, Nor Fire,/ But All These In Their Pregnant Causes Mixed/ Confusedly, And Which Thus Must Ever Fight,/ Unless The Almighty Maker Them Ordain/ His Dark Materials To Create More Worlds,--/ Into This Wild Abyss The Wary Fiend/ Stood On The Brink Of Hell And Looked A While,/ Pondering His Voyage; For No Narrow Frith/ He Had To Cross.

Who Shall Silence All The Airs And Madrigals That Whisper Softness In Chambers?

God Has Set Labor And Rest, As Day And Night To Men Successive.

For No Falsehood Can Endure Touch Of Celestial Temper.