My Soul Is Sick With

And, Of All Lies (be That One Poet's Boast) / The Lie That Flatters I Abhor The Most.

Happy The Man Who Sees A God Employed In All The Good And Ills That Checker Life.

Acquaint Thyself With God, If Thou Would'st Taste His Works. Admitted Once To His Embrace, Thou Shalt Perceive That Thou Was Blind Before: Thine Eye Shall Be Instructed; And Thine Heart Made Pure Shall Relish With Divine Delight Till Then Unfelt, What Hands Divine Have Wrought.

Still Ending, And Beginning Still.

No Wild Enthusiast Could Rest, Till Half The World Like Him Was Possessed.