Glory Grows Guilty Of Detested Crimes.

'tis Better To Bear The Ills We Have Than Fly To Others That We Know Not Of.

Their Manners Are More Gentle, Kind, Than Of Our Human Generation You Shall Find.

Nothing Teems But Hateful Docks, Rough Thistles, Kecksies, Burs, Losing Both Beauty And Utility.

O That A Lady, Of One Man Refused, Should Of Another Therefore Be Abused!

When Our Actions Do Not, Our Fears Make Us Traitors.