Yet I Argue Not Against Heav'n's Hand

There Is Nothing That Making Men Rich And Strong But That Which They Carry Inside Of Them. True Wealth Is Of The Heart, Not Of The Hand.

So Much I Feel My Genial Spirits Droop, My Hopes All Flat, Nature Within Me Seems In Her Functions Weary Of Herself.

And Storied Windows Richly Dight, Casting A Dim Religious Light.

Farewell Hope, And With Hope Farewell Fear

Ornate Rhetorick Taught Out Of The Rule Of Plato.... To Which Poetry Would Be Made Subsequent, Or Indeed Rather Precedent, As Being Less Suttle And Fine, But More Simple, Sensuous, And Passionate.