The deepest rivers make least din, The silent soule doth most abound in care.

And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.

As the best wine doth make the sharpest vinegar, so the deepest love turneth to the deadliest hate.

Where stray ye, Muses! in what lawn or grove, . . . . In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides, Or else where Cam his winding vales divides?

Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; A small Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd, And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue.