Angels Contented With Their Face

Goodness Thinks No Ill Where No Ill Seems.

He Who Destroys A Good Book Kills Reason Itself.

Her Silent Course Advance With Inoffensive Pace, That Spinning Sleeps On Her Soft Axle.

The Leaf Was Darkish, And Had Prickles On It, But In Another Country, As He Said, Bore A Bright Golden Flow'r, But Not In This Soil; Unknown, And Like Esteem'd, And The Dull Swain Treads On It Daily With His Clouted Shoon.

As Therefore The State Of Man Now Is, What Wisdom Can There Be To Choose, What Continence To Forbear, Without The Knowledge Of Good And Evil?