That for the Golden Apple will not loose the Race. And that to hug, affords them no Content. A Scepter o're a Mighty Realm to hold. If I not judge amiss. And Interest in the common Father claime.
Men are possest.
Which asks a Musick soft and still. The Sweet Refection of our toylsome State. Or coldness, worse than Steel, the Loyal heart doth wound. No Happy Two ere felt an Equal Flame. What e're may wound my Eyes or Ears.