Such Sober Certainty Of Waking Bliss.

How Charming Is Divine Philosophy! Not Harsh And Crabbed, As Dull Fools Suppose, But Musical As Is Apollo's Lute, And A Perpetual Feast Of Nectar'd Sweets Where No Crude Surfeit Reigns

What Neat Repast Shall Feast Us, Light And Choice, Of Attic Taste?

A Dungeon Horrible, On All Sides Round, As One Great Furnace, Flamed; Yet From Those Flames No Light, But Rather Darkness Visible Serv'd Only To Discover Sights Of Woe, Regions Of Sorrow, Doleful Shades, Where Peace And Rest Can Never Dwell, Hope Never Comes That Comes To All; But Torture Without End.

Come To The Sunset Tree! The Day Is Past And Gone; The Woodman's Axe Lies Free, And The Reaper's Work Is Done.

Enjoy Your Dear Wit And Gay Rhetoric, That Hath So Well Been Taught Her Dazzling Fence.