Fame Is No Plant That Grows On

Ladies, Whose Bright Eyes Rain Influence, And Judge The Prize.

And On The Tree Of Life, The Middle Tree And Highest There That Grew, Sat Like A Cormorant.

Time Will Run Back And Fetch The Age Of Gold.

I Hate When Vice Can Bolt Her Arguments, And Virtue Has No Tongue To Check Her Pride.

Then Wilt Thou Not Be Loath To Leave This Paradise, But Shalt Possess A Paradise Within Thee, Happier Far.