John Milton, The Complete Poetry

"Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie."

"What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,The labor of an age in pilèd stones,Or that his hallowed relics should be hidUnder a star-y-pointing pyramid?Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?"

"And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie,That kings for such a tomb would wish to die."

"Where the bright seraphim in burning rowTheir loud uplifted angel trumpets blow."