To The Disgrace Of Men It Is

Valor Is Abased By Too Much Loftiness.

Liking Is Not Always The Child Of Beauty; But Whatsoever Is Liked, To The Liker Is Beautiful.

But Words Came Halting Forth, Wanting Invention's Stay; Invention, Nature's Child, Fled Stepdame Study's Blows; And Others' Feet Still Seemed But Strangers In My Way. Thus, Great With Child To Speak, And Helpless In My Throes, Biting My Truant Pen, Beating Myself For Spite: "fool," Said My Muse To Me, "look In Thy Heart, And Write.

Whether Your Time Calls You To Live Or Die, Do Both Like A Prince.

The Heavens Do Not Send Good Haps In Handfuls; But Let Us Pick Out Our Good By Little, And With Care, From Out Much Bad, That Still Our Little World May Know Its King.