He Whom Passion Rules, Is Bent To

...the Poet, He Nothing Affirmeth, And Therefore Never Lieth.

O You Virtuous Owle, The Wise Minerva's Only Fowle.

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.

Whoever Gossips To You Will Gossip About You.

Approved Valor Is Made Precious By Natural Courtesy.