XXXVI.
What else so fit for Man to settle well?
And still their long Researches met in This,
This Truth of Truths, which nothing can refel:
"From Virtue's Fount the purest Joys out-well,
"Sweet Rills of Thought that chear the conscious Soul;
"While Vice pours forth the troubled Streams of Hell,
"The which, howe'er disguis'd, at last with Dole
"Will through the tortur'd Breast their fiery Torrent roll."
XXXVII.
O'er which high wood-crown'd Hills their Summits rear.
On the cool Height awhile our Palmers stay,
And spite even of themselves their Senses chear;
Then to the Wizard's Wonne their Steps they steer.
Like a green Isle, it broad beneath them spred,
With Gardens round, and wandering Currents clear,
And tufted Groves to shade the Meadow-Bed,
Sweet Airs and Song; and without Hurry all seem'd glad.
XXXVIII.
