Muster Your Wits; Stand In Your Own

You Had Measured How Long A Fool You Were Upon The Ground.

As A Decrepit Father Takes Delight To See His Active Child Do Deeds Of Youth, So I, Made Lame By Fortune's Dearest Spite, Take All My Comfort Of Thy Worth And Truth.

He's All My Exercise, My Mirth, My Matter.

I Do Beseech You- Though I Perchance Am Vicious In My Guess , That Your Wisdom Yet From One That So Imperfectly Conjects Would Take No Notice, Nor Build Yourself A Trouble Out Of His Scattering And Unsure Observance.

Because It Is A Customary Cross, As Die To Love As Thoughts, And Dreams, And Sighs, Wishes, And Tears, Poor Fancy's Followers.