No Date Prefixed Directs Me In The

Opinion In Good Men Is But Knowledge In The Making.

And May At Last My Weary Age Find Out The Peaceful Hermitage, The Hairy Gown And Mossy Cell, Where I May Sit And Rightly Spell Of Every Star That Heaven Doth Shew, And Every Herb That Sips The Dew, Till Old Experience To Attain To Something Like Prophetic Strain.

I Hate When Vice Can Bolt Her Arguments, And Virtue Has No Tongue To Check Her Pride.

United Thoughts And Counsels, Equal Hope And Hazard In The Glorious Enterprise.

And Grace That Won Who Saw To Wish Her Stay.