The Planets In Their Station List'ning Stood.

Apostate, Still Thou Err'st, Nor End Wilt Find Offering, From The Paths Of Truth Remote.

With Cowslips Wan That Hang The Pensive Head, And Every Flower That Sad Embroidery Wears.

Now Morn, Her Rosy Steps In Th' Eastern Clime Advancing, Sow'd The Earth With Orient Pearl, When Adam Wak'd, So Custom'd; For His Sleep Was Aery Light, From Pure Digestion Bred.

. . . For Beauty Stands In The Admiration Only Of Weak Minds Led Captive. Cease To Admire, And All Her Plumes Fall Flat And Shrink Into A Trivial Toy, At Every Sudden Slighting Quite Abash'd.

Never Can True Reconcilement Grow Where Wounds Of Deadly Hate Have Pierced So Deep.