You Will Never Live To My Age

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.

I Seek No Better Warrant Than My Own, Conscience.

Music, I Say, The Most Divine Striker Of The Senses.

High-erected Thoughts Seated In The Heart Of Courtesy.

The Lightsome Countenance Of A Friend Giveth Such An Inward Decking To The House Where It Lodgeth, As Proudest Palaces Have Cause To Envy The Gilding.