O, Spirit Of Love, How Quick And

A Tardiness In Nature, Which Often Leaves The History Unspoke, That It Intends To Do.

I Have Unclasp'd To Thee The Book Even Of My Secret Soul.

How Poor Are They That Have Not Patience! What Wound Did Ever Heal But By Degrees?

Nor Age So Eat Up My Invention.

Our Doubts Are Traitors And Make Us Lose The Good We Oft Might Win By Fearing To Attempt.