Was I Deceiv'd, Or Did

Goodness Thinks No Ill Where No Ill Seems.

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.

What Neat Repast Shall Feast Us, Light And Choice, Of Attic Taste?

Evil, Be Thou My Good.

From Restless Thoughts, That, Like A Deadly Swarm Of Hornets Arm'd, No Sooner Found Alone, But Rush Upon Me Thronging.