Blind Mouths! That Scarce Themselves Know How

O Sun, To Tell Thee How I Hate Thy Beams That Bring To My Remembrance From What State I Fell, How Glorious Once Above Thy Sphere.

Meadows Trim With Daisies Pied, Shallow Brooks And Rivers Wide Towers And Battlements It Sees Bosom'd High In Tufted Trees, Where Perhaps Some Beauty Lies, The Cynosure Of Neighboring Eyes.

With A Smile That Glow'd Celestial Rosy Red, Love's Proper Hue.

By A Certain Fate, Great Acts, And Great Eloquence Have Most Commonly Gone Hand In Hand, Equalling And Honoring Each Other In The Same Ages.

Imparadis'd In One Another's Arms.