To So Perverse A Sex All Grace

Time Glides With Undiscover'd Haste; The Future But A Length Behind The Past.

The Winds That Never Moderation Knew, Afraid To Blow Too Much, Too Faintly Blew; Or Out Of Breath With Joy, Could Not Enlarge Their Straighten'd Lungs Or Conscious Of Their Charge.

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.

And, Dying, Bless The Hand That Gave The Blow.

My Love's A Noble Madness.