|With Hyder's might and brawn I feel myself content|
I wish you joy of wit, to you by Plato lent.
This is the charm and grace in view of mine and sight
That heavens too prostrate before much main and might.
Without great majestic height grace is not of much use:
Song is mere puff of breath, if rapture can't produce.
I would not go to hell whose fire is dull and tame:
To suffer for my sins I like a rearing flame.