O You Virtuous Owle, The Wise Minerva's

Whatever Comes Out Of Despair Cannot Bear The Title Of Valor, Which Should Be Lifted Up To Such A Height That Holding All Things Under Itself, It Should Be Able To Maintain Its Greatness, Even In The Midst Of Miseries.

But Words Came Halting Forth, Wanting Invention's Stay; Invention, Nature's Child, Fled Stepdame Study's Blows; And Others' Feet Still Seemed But Strangers In My Way. Thus, Great With Child To Speak, And Helpless In My Throes, Biting My Truant Pen, Beating Myself For Spite: "fool," Said My Muse To Me, "look In Thy Heart, And Write.

Whoever Gossips To You Will Gossip About You.

Give Tribute, But Not Oblation, To Human Wisdom.

Either I Will Find A Way, Or I Will Make One.