And These Gems Of Heav'n, Her Starry

Hide Me From Day's Garish Eye, While The Bee With Honied Thigh, That At Her Flowery Work Doth Sing, And The Waters Murmuring With Such Consort As They Keep, Entice The Dewy-feathered Sleep.

And Out Of Good Still To Find Means Of Evil.

Reason Is Also Choice.

No Mighty Trance, Or Breathed Spell Inspires The Pale-eyed Priest From The Prophetic Cell.

Those Whom Reason Hath Equalled, Force Hath Made Supreme