Our Torments Also May In Length Of

Extol Not Riches Then, The Toil Of Fools, The Wise Man's Cumbrance, If Not Snare, More Apt To Slacken Virtue, And Abate Her Edge, Than Prompt Her To Do Aught May Merit Praise.

In Vain Doth Valour Bleed, While Avarice And Rapine Share The Land.

Hide Me From Day's Garish Eye.

Nothing Profits More Than Self-esteem, Grounded On What Is Just And Right.

As Children Gath'ring Pebbles On The Shore. Or If I Would Delight My Private Hours With Music Or With Poem, Where So Soon As In Our Native Language Can I Find That Solace?