Nor Fame I Slight, Nor Her Favors

A Perfect Woman's But A Softer Man.

The Life Of A Wit Is A Warfare Upon Earth.

All Seems Infected That Th' Infected Spy, As All Looks Yellow To The Jaundiced Eye.

Time Conquers All, And We Must Time Obey.

Here Hills And Vales, The Woodland And The Plain Here Earth And Water Seem To Strive Again, Not Chaos-like Together Crushed And Bruised, But, As The World, Harmoniously Confused: Where Order In Variety We See, And Where, Though All Things Differ, All Agree.