There Is A Proud Modesty In Merit.

Those Who Write Ill, And They Who Ne'er Durst Write, Turn Critics Out Of Mere Revenge And Spite.

But Shakespeare's Magic Could Not Copied Be; Within That Circle None Durst Walk But He.

Among Our Crimes Oblivion May Be Set.

No King Nor Nation One Moment Can Retard The Appointed Hour.

Tis Fate That Flings The Dice, And As She Flings Of Kings Makes Peasants, And Of Peasants Kings.