Tears Water Our Growth.

O! For A Muse Of Fire, That Would Ascend The Brightest Heaven Of Invention.

What Wouldst Thou Do, Old Man? Think'st Thou That Duty Shall Have Dread To Speak When Power To Flattery Bows?

Good Morrow, Fair Ones; Pray You, If You Know, Where In The Purlieus Of This Forest Stands A Sheep-cote Fenc'd About With Olive Trees?

Through Tattered Clothes Great Vices Do Appear; Robes And Furred Gowns Hide All. Plate Sin With Gold And The Strong Lance Of Justice Hurtless Breaks. Arm It In Rags, A Pigmy's Straw Does Pierce It.

Prosperity's The Very Bond Of Love.