Those Who Write Ill, And They Who

To Draw True Beauty Shows A Master's Hand.

Arts And Sciences In One And The Same Century Have Arrived At Great Perfection; And No Wonder, Since Every Age Has A Kind Of Universal Genius, Which Inclines Those That Live In It To Some Particular Studies; The Work Then, Being Pushed On By Many Hands, Must Go Forward.

Nature Meant Me A Wife, A Silly, Harmless, Household Dove, Fond Without Art, And Kind Without Deceit.

Ill Habits Gather Unseen Degrees, As Brooks Make Rivers, Rivers Run To Seas.

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