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When I was a kid and we used to play Post Office, I was the Dead Letter Office.

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John Milton

Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward.

Bate, Bear, Hands, Heart, Hope, Onward
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[Rhyme is] but the invention of a barbarous age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meter;. . . Not without cause therefore some both Italian and Spanish poets of prime note have rejected rhyme,. . . as have also long since our best English tragedies, as. . . trivial and of no true musical delight; which [truly] consists only in apt numbers, fit quantity of syllables, and the sense variously drawn out from one verse into another, not in the jingling sound of like endings, a fault avoided by the learned ancients both in poetry and all good oratory.

Age, Barbarous, Fit, Italian, Long, Numbers

In those vernal seasons of the year when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against nature not to go out and see her riches, and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth.

Air, Calm, Nature, Rejoicing, Seasons, Spring

All is not lost, the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield.

Courage, Hate, Revenge, Study, Submit

The end then of learning is to repair the ruins of our first parents by regaining to know God aright, and out of that knowledge to love him, to imitate him, to be like him, as we may the nearest by possessing our souls of true virtue, which being united to the heavenly grace of faith makes up the highest perfection.

Grace, Heavenly, Nearest, Parent, Perfection

Thus with the year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of ev'n or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine.

Flower, Morn, Rose, Seasons, Summer, Sweet
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