Let None Admire That Riches Grow In

A Death-like Sleep, A Gentle Wafting To Immortal Life.

The Nodding Horror Of Whose Shady Brows Threats The Forlorn And Wandering Passenger.

As Therefore The State Of Man Now Is, What Wisdom Can There Be To Choose, What Continence To Forbear, Without The Knowledge Of Good And Evil?

Demoniac Frenzy, Moping Melancholy.

And In Their Motions Harmony Divine So Smoothes Her Charming Tones, That God's Own Ear Listens Delighted.