Or almost like a spider, who, confin'd In her web's centre, shakt with every winde, Moves in an instant if the buzzing flie Stir but a string of her lawn canapie.

There is no theam more plentifull to scan Than is the glorious goodly frame of man.

These lovely lamps, these windows of the soul.

A good turn at need, At first or last, shall be assur'd of meed.