O You Virtuous Owle, The Wise Minerva's

Happiness Is A Sunbeam, Which May Pass Though A Thousand Bosoms Without Losing A Particle Of Its Original Ray.

Self-love Is Better Than Any Gilding To Make That Seem Gorgeous Wherein Ourselves Be Parties.

My Thoughts, Imprisoned In My Secret Woes, With Flamy Breaths Do Issue Oft In Sound.

The Journey Of High Honor Lies Not In Smooth Ways.

So, Then, The Best Of The Historian Is Subject To The Poet; For Whatsoever Action Or Faction, Whatsoever Counsel, Policy, Or War-stratagem The Historian Is Bound To Recite, That May The Poet, If He List, With His Imitation Make His Own, Beautifying It Both For Further Teaching And More Delighting, As It Pleaseth Him; Having All, From Dante’s Heaven To His Hell, Under The Authority Of His Pen.