Praise From An Enemy Smells Of Craft.

Ease Would Recant Vows Made In Pain, As Violent And Void.

It Were A Journey Like The Path To Heaven, To Help You Find Them.

I Cannot Praise A Fugitive And Cloistered Virtue, Unexercised And Unbreathed, That Never Sallies Out And Sees Her Adversary, But Slinks Out Of The Race Where That Immortal Garland Is To Be Run For, Not Without Dust And Heat.

The Conquer'd, Also, And Enslaved By War, Shall, With Their Freedom Lost, All Virtue Lose.

Faithful Found Among The Faithless.