In Scorn Of Nature, Art Gave Lifeless

Youth Is Full Of Sport, Age's Breath Is Short; Youth Is Nimble, Age Is Lame; Youth Is Hot And Bold, Age Is Weak And Cold; Youth Is Wild, And Age Is Tame.

Yet Nor The Lays Of Birds Nor The Sweet Smell Of Different Flowers In Odour And In Hue Could Make Me Any Summer's Story Tell, Or From Their Proud Lap Pluck Them Where They Grew; Nor Did I Wonder At The Lily's White, Nor Praise The Deep Vermilion In The Rose; They Were But Sweet, But Figures Of Delight, Drawn After You, You Pattern Of All Those.

Now, My Co-mates And Brothers In Exile, Hath Not Old Custom Made This Life More Sweet Than That Of Painted Pomp? Are Not These Woods More Free From Peril Than The Envious Court?

Now, God Be Praised, That To Believing Souls Gives Light In Darkness, Comfort In Despair.

Justice Always Whirls In Equal Measure.