O Nightingale, That On Yon Bloomy Spray

Must I Thus Leave Thee, Paradise?-thus Leave Thee, Native Soil, These Happy Walks And Shades?

The Oracles Are Dumb, No Voice Or Hideous Hum Runs Thro' The Arched Roof In Words Deceiving.

And Yet On The Other Hand Unless Warinesse Be Us'd, As Good Almost Kill A Man As Kill A Good Book; Who Kills A Man Kills A Reasonable Creature, Gods Image, But Hee Who Destroyes A Good Booke, Kills Reason It Selfe, Kills The Image Of God, As It Were In The Eye.

He That Hath Light Within Their Own Breast, May Sit In The Centre And Enjoy Bright Day.

What Can 'scape The Eye Of God, All-seeing, Or Deceive His Heart. Omniscient!