Who Knows Not Circe, The Daughter Of

Love Virtue, She Alone Is Free, She Can Teach Ye How To Climb Higher Than The Sphery Chime; Or, If Virtue Feeble Were, Heav'n Itself Would Stoop To Her.

O Nightingale, That On Yon Bloomy Spray Warblest At Eve, When All The Woods Are Still; Thou With Fresh Hope The Lover's Heart Dost Fill While The Jolly Hours Lead On Propitious May.

Virtue That Wavers Is Not Virtue.

By Night The Glass Of Galileo ... Observes Imagin'd Land And Regions In The Moon.

To Adore The Conqueror, Who Now Beholds Cherub And Seraph Rolling In The Flood.