In Scorn Of Nature, Art Gave Lifeless

For Though The Camomile, The More It Is Trodden On The Faster It Grows, Yet Youth, The More It Is Wasted, The Sooner It Wears.

I Shall Despair. There Is No Creature Loves Me; And If I Die No Soul Will Pity Me: And Wherefore Should They, Since That I Myself Find In Myself No Pity To Myself?

O Judgment ! Thou Art Fled To Brutish Beasts, And Men Have Lost Their Reason !

Tis Safter To Be That Which We Destroy Than By Destruction Dwell In Doubtful Joy.

Teach Me, Dear Creature, How To Think And Speak; Lay Open To My Earthy-gross Conceit, Smother'd In Errors, Feeble, Shallow, Weak, The Folded Meaning Of Your Words' Deceit.