Lords Are Lordliest In Their Wine.

Th' Ethereal Mould Incapable Of Stain Would Soon Expel Her Mischief, And Purge Off The Baser Fire, Victorious. Thus Repuls'd, Our Final Hope Is Flat Despair.

Our Torments Also May In Length Of Time Become Our Elements, These Piercing Fires As Soft As Now Severe, Our Temper Changed Into Their Temper.

Above The Smoke And Stir Of This Dim Spot Which Men Call Earth.

And What The People But A Herd Confus'd, A Miscellaneous Rabble, Who Extol Things Vulgar, And, Well Weigh'd, Scarce Worth The Praise? They Praise, And They Admire, They Know Not What; And Know Not Whom, But As One Leads The Other; And What Delight To Be By Such Extoll'd, To Live Upon Their Tongues, And Be Their Talk, Of Whom To Be Disprais'd Were No Small Praise?

Such As The Meeting Soul May Pierce, In Notes With Many A Winding Bout Of Linked Sweetness Long Drawn Out.