Virtue could see to do what virtue would

By her own radiant light, though sun and moon

Were in the flat sea sunk. And wisdom’s self

Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude,

Where with her best nurse Contemplation

She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings

That in the various bustle of resort

Were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.

He that has light within his own clear breast

May sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day,

But he that hides a dark soul, and foul thoughts

Benighted walks under the midday sun;

Himself his own dungeon.

John Milton (1608-74), Comus (1637).