A wily wench there was (as I have read)

I'd rather die Maid, and lead apes in Hell Than wed an inmate of Silenus' Cell.

To Banbury came I, O profane one! Where I saw a Puritane-one Hanging of his cat on Monday, For killing of a mouse on Sunday.

Skin more pure than Ida’s snow, Whiter far than Moorish milk, Sweeter than ambrosia too, Softer than the Paphian silk, Indian plumes or thistle-down, Or May-blossoms newly blown,

This book for men alone is meant, Book-worms, or bibliophiles anent, Of solid mind, of serious bent, On curious, hidden books intent, On odd research and learning.

No book exists, however bad, From which some good may not be had.

When I survey the bright Celestial sphere; So rich with jewels hung, that Night Doth like an Ethiop bride appear:My soul her wings doth spread And heavenward flies, Th' Almighty's mysteries to read