Of fair religion, and address'd its strife,
To win the riches of eternal life!"
And she, the lonely widow,
XVIII.
And she, the lonely widow,
"Doth the vain heart love glory that is none,
And the poor excellence of vain attire?
Oh go, and drown your eyes against the sun,
The visible ruler of the starry quire,
Till boiling gold in giddy eddies run,