The Scum That Rises Upmost, When The

Not Heav'n Itself Upon The Past Has Pow'r; But What Has Been, Has Been, And I Have Had My Hour.

Fame Then Was Cheap, And The First Comer Sped; And They Have Kept It Since By Being Dead.

But Shakespeare's Magic Could Not Copied Be; Within That Circle None Durst Walk But He.

To Tame The Proud, The Fetter'd Slave To Free, These Are Imperial Arts.

Softly Sweet, In Lydian Measures, Soon He Sooth'd His Soul To Pleasures. War, He Sung, Is Toil And Trouble; Honour But An Empty Bubble; Never Ending, Still Beginning, Fighting Still, And Still Destroying. If All The World Be Worth The Winning, Think, Oh Think It Worth Enjoying: Lovely Thais Sits Beside Thee, Take The Good The Gods Provide Thee.