My Heart Contains Of Good, Wise, Just,

Sweet Bird That Shunn'st The Nose Of Folly, Most Musical, Most Melancholy! Thee, Chauntress, Oft, The Woods Among, I Woo, To Hear Thy Even-song.

How Wearisom Eternity So Spent In Worship Paid To Whom We Hate. Let Us Not Then Pursue By Force Impossible, By Leave Obtain'd Unacceptable, Though In Heav'n, Our State Of Splendid Vassalage, But Rather Seek Our Own Good From Our Selves, And From Our Own Live To Our Selves, Though In This Vast Recess, Free, And To None Accountable, Preferring Hard Liberty Before The Easie Yoke Of Servile Pomp

The Nodding Horror Of Whose Shady Brows Threats The Forlorn And Wandering Passenger.

Opinion In Good Men Is But Knowledge In The Making.

So Shall The World Go On, To Good Malignant, To Bad Men Benign, Under Her Own Weight Groaning.