That stone, . . . Philosophers in vain so long have sought.

How charming is divine philosophy! Not harsh, and crabbed, as full fools suppose, But musical as is Apollo's lute, And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets, Where no crude surfeit reigns.

How charming is divine philosophy! Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, But musical as is Apollo's lute, And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets Where no crude surfeit reigns

Best image of myself and dearer half.

A little onward lend thy guiding hand / To these dark steps, a little further on.

Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.