Mighty Things From Small Beginnings Grow.

While I Am Compassed Round With Mirth, My Soul Lies Hid In Shades Of Grief, Whence, Like The Bird Of Night, With Half-shut Eyes, She Peeps, And Sickens At The Sight Of Day.

A Brave Man Scorns To Quarrel Once A Day; Like Hectors In At Every Petty Fray.

A Lively Faith Will Bear Aloft The Mind, And Leave The Luggage Of Good Works Behind.

Prodigious Actions May As Well Be Done, By Weaver's Issue, As The Prince's Son.

Want Is A Bitter And A Hateful Good, Because Its Virtues Are Not Understood; Yet Many Things, Impossible To Thought, Have Been By Need To Full Perfection Brought. The Daring Of The Soul Proceeds From Thence, Sharpness Of Wit, And Active Diligence; Prudence At Once, And Fortitude It Gives; And, If In Patience Taken, Mends Our Lives.