To Pore Upon A Book, To Seek

I Rather Would Entreat Thy Company; To See The Wonders Of The World Abroad, Than, Living Dully Sluggardized At Home, Wear Out Thy Youth With Shapeless Idleness.

And Nothing Can We Call Our Own But Death And That Small Model Of The Barren Earth Which Serves As Paste And Cover To Our Bones. For God's Sake, Let Us Sit Upon The Ground And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings.

Affection Faints Not Like A Pale-faced Coward, But Then Woos Best When Most His Choice Is Froward.

Put On The Dauntless Spirit Of Resolution.

This Royal Throne Of Kings, This Scepter'd Isle, This Earth Of Majesty, This Seat Of Mars, This Other Eden, Demi-paradise.