Sweet Is Pleasure After Pain.

But 'tis The Talent Of Our English Nation, Still To Be Plotting Some New Reformation.

The Soft Complaining Flute, In Dying Notes, Discovers The Woes Of Hopeless Lovers.

To Draw True Beauty Shows A Master's Hand.

Fool That I Was, Upon My Eagle's Wings I Bore This Wren, Till I Was Tired With Soaring, And Now He Mounts Above Me.

And After Hearing What Our Church Can Say, If Still Our Reason Runs Another Way, That Private Reason 'tis More Just To Curb, Than By Disputes The Public Peace Disturb; For Points Obscure Are Of Small Use To Learn, But Common Quiet Is Mankind's Concern.