For Art May Err, But Nature Cannot

Either Be Wholly Slaves Or Wholly Free.

Blown Roses Hold Their Sweetness To The Last.

For Thee, Sweet Month; The Groves Green Liveries Wear. If Not The First, The Fairest Of The Year; For Thee The Graces Lead The Dancing Hours, And Nature's Ready Pencil Paints The Flowers. When Thy Short Reign Is Past, The Feverish Sun The Sultry Tropic Fears, And Moves More Slowly On.

The Province Of The Soul Is Large Enough To Fill Up Every Cranny Of Your Time, And Leave You Much To Answer For If One Wretch Be Damned By Your Neglect.

Freedom Which In No Other Land Will Thrive, Freedom An English Subject's Sole Prerogative.