Heaven Prepares Good Men With Crosses; But

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.

Who Will Not Judge Him Worthy To Be Robbed That Sets His Doors Wide Open To A Thief, And Shows The Felon Where His Treasure Lies?

Vice Is Like A Fury To The Vicious Mind, And Turns Delight Itself To Punishment.

If All You Boast Of Your Great Art Be True; Sure, Willing Poverty Lives Most In You.

If I Freely May Discover What Should Please Me In My Lover, I Would Have Her Fair And Witty, Savouring More Of Court Than City; A Little Proud, But Full Of Pity; Light And Humorous In Her Toying, Oft Building Hopes, And Soon Destroying, Long, But Sweet In The Enjoying; Neither Too Easy Nor To Hard; All Extremes I Would Have Barr'd.