I Happy Am, If Well With You.

Satan, That Great Angler, Hath His Sundry Baits For Sundry Tempers Of Men, Which They All Catch Greedily At, But Few Perceive The Hook Till It Be Too Late.

My Age I Will Not Once Lament, / But Sing, My Time So Near Is Spent.

To Sing Of Wars, Of Captains, And Of Kings/of Cities Founded, Common-wealths Begun/for My Mean Pen Are Too Superior Things.

We Must, Therefore, Be Here As Strangers And Pilgrims, That We May Plainly Declare That We Seek A City Above.

And Time Brings Down What Is Both Strong And Tall. But Plants New Set To Be Eradicate, And Buds New Blown, To Have So Short A Date, Is By His Hand Alone That Guides Nature And Fate.