Force Works On Servile Natures, Not The

I Have No Urns, No Dusty Monuments; No Broken Images Of Ancestors, Wanting An Ear, Or Nose; No Forged Tales Of Long Descents, To Boast False Honors From.

That Old Bald Cheater, Time.

Nor For My Peace Will I Go Far, As Wanderers Do, That Still Do Roam, But Make My Strengths, Such As They Are, Here In My Bosom, And At Home.

In The Hope To Meet Shortly Again, And Make Our Absence Sweet.

Ambition, Like A Torrent, Ne'er Looks Back; And Is A Swelling, And The Last Affection A High Mind Can Put Off; Being Both A Rebel Unto The Soul And Reason, And Enforceth All Laws, All Conscience, Treads Upon Religion, And Offereth Violence To Nature's Self.