Mortals, that would follow me, / 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. |
Most men admire virtue who follow not her lore |
My fairest, my espoused, my latest found, / Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight. |
My race of glory run, and race of shame, / And I shall shortly be with them that rest. |
My sentence is for open war; of wiles, / More unexpert, I boast not. |
Necessity, the tyrant's plea |
New Presbyter is but old Priest writ large. |
No nightly trance or breathèd spell, / Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. |
No worthy enterprise can be done by us without continual plodding and wearisomeness to our faint and sensitive abilities |
None can love freedom heartily but good men; the rest love not freedom, but license which never hath more scope than under tyrants |
Nor aught availed him now to have built in heaven high towers; nor did he scrape by all his engines, but was headlong sent with his industrious crew to build in hell. |
Nor love thy life, nor hate; but what thou liv'st, Live well, how long or short permit to heav'n |
Nor war, or battle's sound / Was heard the world around. |
Not to know me argues yourselves unknown. |
Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail / Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt,/ Dispraise, or blame; nothing but well and fair,/ And what may quiet us in a death so noble. |