Lope. Ah, what in nature will its centre leave,
Or, forced away, recoils not faster still?
So rivers yearn along their murmuring beds
Until they reach the sea; the pebble thrown
Ever so high, still faster falls to earth;
Wind follows wind, and not a flame struck out
Of heavy wood or flint, but it aspires
Upward at once and to its proper sphere.
Viol. All good philosophy, could I but see
How to apply it here.