For Virtue Only Finds Eternal Fame.

Whyle I Was Abowte To Chaunge Myn Olde Lyff-- What Sorowe I Suffred, Dyseese, Angre And Stryff, Cracchynge Myn Here, My Chekys All Totare, Wrythynge My Fyngres For Angwysshe And Care, Watrynge The Erthe With My Byttre Salte Teres That The Crye Of My Syghes Ascended To Goddys Eres, My Knees With Myn Handys Grasped Togedyre Soore, And Yitt I Stode The Same Man I Was Afore Tyl A Depe Profounde Remembraunce Att The Laste Hadd All My Wrecchednesse Afore Myn Eyn Caste

For Style Beyond The Genius Never Dares.

Go, Grieving Rimes Of Mine, To That Hard Stone Whereunder Lies My Darling, Lies My Dear, And Cry To Her To Speak From Heaven's Sphere.

Books Come At My Call And Return When I Desire Them; They Are Never Out Of Humor And They Answer All My Questions With Readiness. Some Present In Review Before Me The Events Of Past Ages; Others Reveal To Me The Secrets Of Nature. These Teach Me How To Live, And Those How To Die; These Dispel My Melancholy By Their Mirth, And Amuse Me By Their Sallies Of Wit. Some There Are Who Prepare My Soul To Suffer Everything, To Desire Nothing, And To Become Thoroughly Acquainted With Itself. In A Word, They Open The Door To All The Arts And Sciences.

Who Over-refines His Argument Brings Himself To Grief