...the Poet, He Nothing Affirmeth, And Therefore

As Well The Soldier Dieth Who Standeth Still As He That Gives The Bravest Onset.

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.

The Lightsome Countenance Of A Friend Giveth Such An Inward Decking To The House Where It Lodgeth, As Proudest Palaces Have Cause To Envy The Gilding.

We Become Willing Servants To The Good By The Bonds Their Virtues Lay Upon Us.

If Any Sensual Weakness Arise, We Are To Yield All Our Sound Forces To The Overthrowing Of So Unnatural A Rebellion; Wherein How Can We Want Courage, Since We Are To Deal Against So Feeble An Adversary, That In Itself Is Nothing But Weakness? Nay, We Are To Resolve That If Reason Direct It, We Must Do It, And If We Must Do It, We Will Do It; For To Say "i Cannot" Is Childish, And "i Will Not" Is Womanish.