The Planets In Their Station List'ning Stood.

And To The Faithful: Death, The Gate Of Life.

Our Torments Also May In Length Of Time Become Our Elements.

Virtue May Be Assailed, But Never Hurt, Surprised By Unjust Force, But Not Inthralled; Yea, Even That Which Mischief Meant Most Harm Shall In The Happy Trial Prove Most Glory.

O Loss Of Sight, Of Thee I Most Complain! Blind Among Enemies, O Worse Than Chains, Dungeon, Or Beggary, Or Decrepit Age!

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.