The Bitter Clamor Of Two Eager Tongues.

When We Our Betters See Bearing Our Woes, We Scarcely Think Our Miseries Our Foes.

Time's The King Of Men; He's Both Their Parent, And He Is Their Grave, And Gives Them What He Will, Not What They Crave.

The Plants Look Up To Heaven, From Whence They Have Their Nourishment.

So Many Miseries Have Craz'd My Voice, That My Woe-wearied Tongue Is Still And Mute.

Small Herbs Have Grace, Great Weeds Do Grow Apace.