Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining.

License They Mean When They Cry Liberty; For Who Loves That, Must First Be Wise And Good.

The Starry Cope Of Heaven.

Just Are The Ways Of God, And Justifiable To Men; Unless There Be Who Think Not God At All.

And May At Last My Weary Age Find Out The Peaceful Hermitage, The Hairy Gown And Mossy Cell, Where I May Sit And Rightly Spell Of Every Star That Heaven Doth Shew, And Every Herb That Sips The Dew, Till Old Experience To Attain To Something Like Prophetic Strain.

Thy Liquid Notes That Close The Eye Of Day.