O, For An Engine, To Keep Back

Where Dost Thou Careless Lie, Buried In Ease And Sloth? Knowledge That Sleeps, Doth Die; And This Security, It Is The Common Moth, That Eats On Wits And Arts, And Oft Destroys Them Both.

Follow A Shadow, It Still Flies You, Seem To Fly, It Will Pursue: So Court A Mistress, She Denies You; Let Her Alone, She Will Court You. Say Are Not Women Truly, Then, Styled But The Shadows Of Us Men?

If You Succeed Not, Cast Not Away The Quills Yet, Nor Scratch The Wainscot, Beat Not The Poor Desk, But Bring All To The Forge And File Again; Turn It New.

Poets Are Far Rarer Birds Than Kings.

Out Of Clothes Out Of Countenance, Out Of Countenance Out Of Wit.