The Oracles Are Dumb, No

The Spirits Perverse With Easy Intercourse Pass To And Fro, To Tempt Or Punish Mortals.

But When Lust By Unchaste Looks, Loose Gestures, And Foul Talk, But Most By Lewd And Lavish Arts Of Sin, Lets In Defilement To The Inward Parts, The Soul Grows Clotted By Contagion, Imbodies And Imbrutes, Till She Quite Lose The Divine Property Of Her First Being.

The Olive Grove Of Academe, Plato's Retirement, Where The Attic Bird Trills Her Thick-warbled Notes The Summer Long.

Where More Is Meant Than Meets The Ear.

The Winds With Wonder Whist, Smoothly The Waters Kisst.