Affliction Teacheth A Wicked Person Sometime To

Fortune, Thou Hadst No Deity, If Men Had Wisdom.

Still To Be Neat, Still To Be Drest, As You Were Going To A Feast, Still To Be Powder'd, All Perfum'd. Lady, It Is To Be Presumed, Though Art's Hid Causes Are Not Found, All Is Not Sweet, All Is Not Sound.

When A Virtuous Man Is Raised, It Brings Gladness To His Friends, Grief To His Enemies, And Glory To His Posterity.

Each Petty Hand Can Steer A Ship Becalm'd; But He That Will Govern And Carry Her To Her Ends, Must Know His Tides, His Currents, How To Shift His Sails; What She Will Bear In Foul, What In Fair Weathers; Where Her Springs Are, Her Leaks, And How To Stop 'em; What Strands, What Shelves, What Rocks Do Threaten Her.

Soul Of The Age! The Applause, Delight, The Wonder Of Our Stage! My Shakespeare , Rise; I Will Not Lodge Thee By Chaucer Or Spenser , Or Bid Beaumont Lie A Little Further, To Make Thee A Room; Thou Art A Monument, Without A Tomb, And Art Alive Still, While Thy Book Doth Live, And We Have Wits To Read , And Praise To Give .