Methought I Saw My Late Espoused Saint.

He Who Would Not Be Frustrate Of His Hope To Write Well Hereafter In Laudable Things Ought Himself To Be A True Poem.

It Is Chastity, My Brother. She That Has That Is Clad In Complete Steel.

Swinish Gluttony Never Looks To Heaven Amidst Its Gorgeous Feast; But With Besotted, Base Ingratitude, Cravens And Blasphemes His Feeder.

Love-quarrels Oft In Pleasing Concord End.

Let Us Descend Now Therefore From This Top Of Speculation.