They Say Miracles Are Past.

Through Tattered Clothes, Small Vices Do Appear. Robes And Furred Gowns Hide All.

Mechanic Slaves With Greasy Aprons, Rules, And Hammers, Shall Uplift Us To The View.

Time, That Takes Survey Of All The World, Must Have A Stop.

Never Durst Poet Touch A Pen To Write Until His Ink Were Temper'd With Love's Sighs.

And When I Am Forgotten, As I Shall Be, And Asleep In Dull Cold Marble, Where No Mention Of Me Must Be Heard Of, Say, I Taught Thee.